Believing
by JinSol
Summary: After an unpredictable accident, Dan has to re-evaluate his disbelief in the supernatural. Life's hard being a ghost. Among trying to come to terms with his newly minted membership to the holey-sheet-wearers-association, Dan has to find a way to communicate with his best friend Phil - who is taking the news a bit differently than he expected.
1. Chapter 1

Phil shut the pantry door and opened it again. Nothing changed. He rummaged through the shelf, looking behind the cereal boxes and in a dozen other places he already knew it wasn't. Nothing magically appeared that wasn't there before.

"Err...Dan?" he peered cautiously around the door of the pantry, to where his friend was adjusting the framing on the camera. Dan blew the coarse pastel wig out of his eyes and answered without looking up.

"What?"

"Don't be mad," Phil started, at which Dan immediately looked up at him through his fluffy white fringe. His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"What?" His tone was the perfect mix of accusing and resigned. The accompanying glare, however was made somewhat ridiculous by the flower crown and pastel shirt. Phil pressed his lips together to keep from laughing.

"I may have forgotten the flour," Phil grinned his best ' _please don't kill me'_ grin and ducked behind the pantry door.

" _Phil Lester!"_ Dan's voice was a shriek. "Do you know what the main ingredient of pancakes is, Phil?" From behind the pantry door, Phil laughed.

"It's flour! I'm sorry!" Dan closed his eyes, pinched the space between his eyebrows and took a deep breath.

"How are we going to do this video without flour?" Dan stepped out in front of the camera and began to mime the cooking video they were supposed to be making. "First the flour – what? We don't have any? Well I guess we could just push on without it, couldn't we Phil? Let's see, first the eggs, then the milk, some salt and put it all in the pan, annnd now we flip it!" Dan took the empty fry pan and spun it around in his hand. "What _have_ I made here Phil?"

"I don't know."

"It's an _omelette_ ," Dan said shrilly, before charging Phil's pantry bunker and mock hitting him with the fry pan. "But it's not just an omelette," he continued, poking Phil's ticklish sides with the handle. "It's the most boring omelette in the world!"

Phil retreated further into the pantry, trying in vain to protect his sides. "I'm sorry! Stop!" he yelled through laughter. "I surrender! I'm sorry you had to make such a boring omelette!"

"There is no surrender, Philly!" Dan made another mock lunge with the fry pan, and Phil grabbed the closest thing he could find to shield his body. Dan's cereal. Perfect.

"Truce!" Phil called. "Or...or the cereal gets it!"

Dan snorted once at the ridiculousness of it, before he regained proper fry-pan-duel decorum and took stock of the situation. He stood half in the pantry, pan in hand at full extension against Phil's cereal box shield. _His_ cereal.

"Low blow, Lester," he tutted and retreated from the pantry. Phil cheered in victory from the pantry.

"I know," he said, and put the cereal back. "Sorry. I honestly don't know how I forgot it," Phil went on between snickers. "There was a kid with his mum in a Spiderman outfit – I mean the kid was in the outfit, not the mum. That would have been a bit weird. But then I started thinking about the new Spiderman movie and I got distracted. And...and I forgot the flour. And now we're just going to have plain, boring omelettes." Dan looked at the ceiling trying to look put out, and not at all like he was trying not to laugh. Phil peeked out from around the corner of the door.

"Are you mad?"

Dan continued to look at the ceiling. The lights needed dusting. "Mad?" A snicker finally escaped, and he shook his head, hiding his grin with his hand. "I'm not even surprised." The camera beeped beside him. _SD card full._ Damn. He'd forgotten to transfer the files after the video idea he'd half recorded late that night – or early that morning. And there is was. The levelling of the playing field. He was never one-up on Phil Lester for long. There were spares SD cards, of course, but finding an empty one would probably take as long as transferring the files on this one.

"Fine," Dan huffed, and took of the itchy wig. "I'll go get some flour." Dan threw a dark jacket over the pastel shirt. Not quite the aesthetic he was going for, but it was good enough for a trip to the store. As he passed the pantry door, he leaned on it and squashed Phil against the shelves in gladiatorial style. Phil flailed and squeaked from behind the door.

"Help! Assault!"

Dan poked his head around the side of the door at a red-faced and slightly flattened Phil. "And while I'm out trying to forget that _apparently_ Spiderman is more important than our cooking videos," Dan's smile turned sweet and he fluttered his eyelashes endearingly (or so he hoped). "Maybe you could transfer the files on the SD card to my laptop?" Phil stopped struggling for a second and his jaw dropped.

"Dan." he shuffled sideways until his head was poking out of the pantry. "Is the SD card full?" his voice was both suspicious and knowing. Dan grinned brightly and made for the door.

"Back soon!" he said over his shoulder.

"Dan!" Phil called out as he heard his friend grab the keys. "Why is the SD card full, Dan?"

"Bye," Dan laughed, and Phil emerged from the pantry with a wry smile, just as the door to the flat swung closed.

Phil shook his head and grinned. "Unbelievable," he said as he took a handful of Dan's cereal and removed the SD card from the camera. "Filing again."

…...

Dan swung the bag with the flour in it as he walked. It was another dreary London day outside. It wasn't raining, but not for lack of trying. To try and keep his mind off the fact that he was outside and voluntarily exercising, Dan tried to mentally sort out his failed 3am video. It wasn't his usual sort, but 3am was weird that way. It often brought thoughts and moods that daylight seemed to scare off.

It wasn't a cohesive video in any sort of way, but more a rambling, aimless, wandering sort of fluff. Like a bit of dandelion seed caught in the wind. Dan scoffed at his own fancifulness. A dandelion wouldn't be caught dead inside. A video should at least be true to its surroundings. Given that he rarely left the flat, that would make it less dandelion in the wind, and more dust bunny in the central heating duct.

Either way, it was a wool-gathering piece of random stuff that would never see the light of day, let alone tread the well lit stage of the internet. It was terrible.

But he liked it.

And even now, Phil would be transferring it over to his laptop, hopefully not watching it. He inwardly cringed at the thought of Phil getting bored waiting for him at the flat and looking over his footage to see what he'd filled up the SD card with this time. It wasn't exactly prime material. But Phil had seen worse, and he'd still stuck around. Still, no harm in walking a little faster.

Dan hurried across the road against the wind, pulling up the hood on his jacket.

One second, the traffic sounded quite close.

The next second, there was pain as something hit him from the side.

The next second, there was nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil scratched at his pastel wig while staring at the seconds count down on the file transfer. 3, 2, 1...complete. He ejected the SD card and glanced at the files on the screen. What on earth did Dan record in the middle of the night? Pacing? He knew for sure that there was at least some of that happening. Existential crisis? Probably not. Existential crises and procrastination were practically kissing cousins. If Dan had been having a midnight existential crisis, then he'd be unlikely to find the motivation to record it.

Smiling and shaking his head, Phil closed the laptop and leaned back in the chair. Dan should be home with the flour soon. He raised his arms above his head and stretched back with a hum. Mid stretch, the door bell rang. Phil jumped up and went to let Dan in, who'd no doubt, forgotten his keys.

Half way down the corridor, he paused for thought. That wasn't right. Dan _had_ taken his keys with him. He'd seen him do it. It wouldn't have been family either, they'd phone first. Friends would have messaged. A package, maybe? A subscriber? Hopefully their address had not been leaked. As much as he loved their subscribers, there were boundaries. Phil glanced around the flat quickly to find it _mostly_ tidy. Not really visitor worthy, but unexpected visitors would just have to deal with the clutter. It was their fault for coming unannounced, anyway.

The doorbell sounded again, and Phil approached the door with equal amounts of curiosity and trepidation.

…...

Dan walked towards the flat, flour in hand, feeling better than he had in years. He felt light, somehow. Not at all like he'd expect to feel after being hit by a car. The driver had been pretty upset, and nothing he said to try and appease him had worked.

But he was fine. Sure, it had hurt at first, and there was a bit of time there that he couldn't remember, but he was fine. The car was fine, the flour was fine, he was fine, everyone was fine. But the driver had immediately called the ambulance, and a crowd had started to gather. In the end, he'd given in to his embarrassment and quietly slipped away in the confusion.

He took the long way home, needing a little time to think it out, even if it _did_ mean more exercise. He tried to think of it as substitute pacing. Done outside. In a straight line. In a way, he was conserving energy by not having to turn when he got to the end of the room, like he had to in his bedroom.

Dan sighed. He knew a weak justification when he heard one, but he really _did_ need the time to get his brain in order. He couldn't believe he'd been that distracted that he'd actually walked in front of a car. It seemed more like the kind of situation Phil would get himself into with his well documented clumsiness. Maybe it was the hoody, blocking out his peripheral vision. Yeah. That was probably it. Phil would be worried, and then he'd laugh, and then he'd be worried again. Then he'd sort out what needed to be done, and everything would be ok.

Dan finally turned the corner to the flat and stopped in his tracks. A police car was parked outside, and two officers stood outside the door. Fuck! That was quick. He started to panic. Was it an offence to leave the scene of a crime? He couldn't remember. It might be. Shit! It probably was.

He hid back around the corner for a second. How the hell had they known it was him? Did someone recognise him? Did he drop his wallet? Dan felt cold for a second, his hands clammy. He breathed a few deep breaths and tried to summon the logical half of his brain again. It was an accident. True. They couldn't put him in jail for being hit by a car. True. They clearly already knew who he was, so hiding around this corner didn't help him in the slightest. There was no avoiding this. Dan closed his eyes and silently screamed into his knuckles. Overwhelmingly true.

After another calming breath, Dan turned the corner again and walked towards the flat. As he got closer, he heard "residence of Daniel Howell," from the female police officer, and "accident". Phil was at the door, looking confused, shocked and a bit fearful. As he came up behind them, the male police officer was asking "Do you happen to have any contact information for his family?"

Dan coughed to let them know he was there.

"Actually, you don't need to contact them. I'm here. I've not fled the countr-"

"I have their home phone number," Phil interrupted him, and brought out his mobile with shaky hands. He tried and failed few times to put in his passcode as his hands shook. Dan looked askance at him. The police officers didn't even turn around.

"Uh...do you really need to call my parents?" he asked a bit louder. "I'm not in kindergarten. I'm legally an adult."

"Do you need a hand with that?" the female police officer asked Phil gently. Phil's eyes darted about a bit as he held out the phone to her.

"Er...yeah. Thanks. The passcode is 0587." The female officer took the phone and typed in the code.

Dan stood behind them, hands raised in a 'what the hell is going on' fashion. "Seriously. Guys...and lady. If you need to talk with me about this, talk with me. Not my parents. Me. Dan Howell. I'm right here. Got hit by a car. Walked away from the scene of the crime like an idiot. That's m-"

"The number should be under 'Dan home'," Phil interrupted again, face white. "Never did get around to changing it."

"Phil!" Dan yelled. "Could you not? Could you not give out my family's information, please?" The please was less of a courtesy and more of an exclamation point. Nobody took any notice.

"Thank you," said the police officer, taking down the number and handing back the phone.

"Do you know..." Phil paused, as the police started to turn. "Do you know where he's been taken?"

The police officer looked through her notepad and found what she was looking for. "The ambulance was called out from the Royal, but he'd be in A & E, or critical care. So they'd only be letting family members visit at this stage."

Phil trembled visibly and clutched his phone tighter to his chest. "Oh," he said a bit woodenly. "Ok."

Dan's eyes narrowed in confusion. What on earth was going on? "Phil," he said gently, because his friend genuinely looked like he was going to faint. "I didn't go to hospital, Phil." Phil didn't respond, but Dan pressed on. "The guy who hit me felt bad, and he called the ambulance. But I left before it got there." Dan thought for a second. Unless the guy who'd hit him had a stress heart attack after he'd left, and _he'd_ been taken to the Royal. And the police had fucked it up and got the identity wrong. But Phil wasn't looking at him, he was looking at the police.

"Thank you for your help," said the male officer. "If you need someone to talk to," the female officer was holding out a card with _Samaritans_ written on it. Phil took it numbly, and nodded his thanks. Dan crossed his arms, and waited for the police to turn around and see that they'd made a huge mistake. Finally, they closed their notebooks.

Then they turned around and walked straight through him.

Dan stood with his hands outstretched in the stop position, and his eyes wide. The footsteps of the police disappeared behind him, and eventually the sound of car doors closing reached his ears. They had just walked straight through him.

In the door way, Phil stood staring at the concrete just behind where Dan was standing, his face blank and pale.

"Phil?" Dan said weakly.

Phil seemed to come to himself after a second, and took a shaky breath in, before turning and closing the door behind him.

Dan stared at the closed door for a long time before looking down at his hands. They looked the same to him. Huge and slightly white from where the shopping bag was cutting off the circulation. Normal. He looked back up at the door. Surely the police weren't right. He was here. He wasn't in the London Royal. Clearly.

Dan walked up to the door. Maybe Phil was just in so much shock that he hadn't seen him there. _And maybe the police officers were aliens that can walk through solid matter._ His brain supplied. He staunchly ignored it, and reached for the handle. His hand passed straight through it.

Dan's mouth made an 'o' of surprise. He pressed his lips together and tried again. His hand passed through the handle like it was made of smoke. He tried again and again, with the same result, before lashing out at the door with his palm. His hand went straight through. He snatched it back out and held onto his wrist, like it should hurt. But it didn't. Dan swallowed thickly, and tears prickled behind his eyes. Clenching his hands, and screwing up his face, Dan shut his eyes and walked two steps forward.

When he opened his eyes again, he was in the corridor. The door was behind him. He'd just walked through a door. He pressed his hands together and smashed them against his lips, trying to keep the panic from crashing out. There was no denying it now. He'd been hit by a car, taken to hospital and had died. Dan was a ghost. He dropped his hands from his face and let the flour fall to the floor. He looked at it for a second. What was it? Ghost flour? Seriously? He didn't even believe in ghosts and now there's ghost flour? Phil would never let him live this down.

A small, slightly mad giggle erupted from his mouth. There would definitely be no living it down. Not now. The giggle turned into a strange whine as Dan fought a sob. He was dead. It was done. No more life. No more gaming channel, no more late video sessions, Riverdale marathons or frustrating editing sessions. No more long days of deepening the sofa crease, or sorting out book pages with Phil. His heart clenched hard. Even though he could hear him in the next room, it felt like he'd lost his best friend.

Dan closed his eyes and let himself feel it for a second before he squashed it down. Phil was not dead. He was in the next room. Dan was dead. But he was still here, somehow. Astral projection maybe? He grimaced. How astral projection was any more logical than just being a plain old sheet wearing ghoul was anyone's guess.

"I'm a ghost," Dan said aloud, in an effort to try and accept the apparent truth. His voice was a bit weak, and irrationally, it annoyed him. " _I'm_ a ghost?" His mouth turned down in utter disgust, like he'd licked a nintendo cartridge. "I'm a fucking ghost? Are you fucking kidding me?!" He bared his teeth and tensed his hands in frustration for a second like he was strangling the air, before letting out an angry huff. His rage cooled quickly to a simmer of generalised annoyance.

A lifetime of not believing in the supernatural and now he was a member of the holey-sheet-wearer's association. And who even knew about any of the other creatures. Were zombies real? Were-wolves? Unicorns? Vampires – and if so, did they fucking glitter? Dan sighed and shook his head, for what felt like the hundredth time that day. He'd reserve judgement on the rest of the supernatural, but for now, he had to admit that ghosts where real. And he was one.

"Well, fuck," he pouted one more time, and went to go find Phil.


	3. Chapter 3

Phil closed the door behind him after the police had left, still clutching the phone and call card to his chest. His hands were still shaking. He had to call someone. He unlocked his phone carefully and instinctively pushed the speed dial for Dan. It rang twice before he realised what he was doing, and quickly hung up. Taking shallow breaths, he walked stiffly to the lounge room. He could call Dan's home phone, but the police might be talking to the family. Or they might be in the car on the way down. Or they might not know yet, and he'd have to be the one to tell them.

Phil sat on the couch, then stood up again, uncomfortable. His body was wired with adrenaline, but he had nowhere to go. Everything seemed wrong. His best friend was in hospital, and there was nothing he could do to help. He didn't even know how bad it was. Phil rubbed at his face absently, his eyes still wide and unblinking. What should he do?

He couldn't see Dan at the hospital unless he was family. He could pretend to be family, but anyone who'd seen their radio show would know it was a lie. He could try to join Dan's family when they got there, but he might be intruding. He could ask the family how Dan's doing, but it might upset them more.

There was nothing he could do. He was too wound up to sit and wait for news, but there was nothing he could do. Phil looked over at the kitchen, still set up for the video. Ingredients still strategically placed on the bench. Everything but the flour.

His throat constricted. The flour. If he hadn't forgotten the flour, Dan would be here, and they'd be half way through a video by now, maybe eating pancakes, maybe cleaning batter off the ceiling. But he'd forgotten the bloody flour, and Dan had gone to get it instead. The flat was unnaturally still around him. The silence was heavy – as heavy as his insides felt. It was his fault. Dan was in hospital and it was his fault.

Guilt sat on his heart like a hippopotamus. Carefully, he sat down next to Dan's sofa crease, and unlocked his phone again. Before he knew it, the phone was dialling, and a soft click on the other end sounded as it was answered.

"Mum?" he asked, his voice tight in his chest.

"Child," came the voice down the phone, and he almost cried. The 'mother effect' Dan would call it.

"Can you come down please?" he squeaked out before she could continue.

"Phillip?" her voice held a hint of concern. "What's wrong?" Phil sniffed into the phone, his nose suddenly running like a tap. He stalled for a second to gather up the courage to say it aloud. Telling his mum made it real.

"Dan's been in an accident." His voice cracked as he spoke. "I don't know what to do."

"Oh, Child," she replied, the phone line stealing the warmth from her voice. "Is he ok? Have you called the ambulance?" Phil sniffed loudly again.

"I don't know. I don't know if he's ok. I wasn't there. They took him to the hospital, and I can't see him, 'cause I'm not family. They've called his family, but I don't know what to do, Mum. What do I do?"

"Phil, Luv, I know you're scared, but I need you to sit down." Phil sniffed again and wiped his nose on his sleeve, not caring if he got it dirty. It hardly mattered.

"I'm sitting down," he said quickly.

"Good. Now I need you to have a cup of tea, and wait for me. I'll be there as soon as I can, and we'll go to the hospital together."

"But -"

"There's nothing you can do at the moment. Now, the doctors will be doing what they can, and you won't be doing any good for yourself or for them by going down there in this state. There probably won't be any news for a while, so just sit down, have a cup of tea, and I'll be there as soon as I can." Her voice brooked no arguments, and Phil found himself promising to wait for her as she ended the call.

Phil let the phone fall to his lap as he looked back at the kitchen. _I should clean that up if Mum's coming._ His brain supplied the thought before he could shake it off. It was immediately followed by a stab of guilt. A part of him wanted to keep it there, as a reminder of what they should have been doing – like a shrine to his guilt. Another part of him wanted to keep it there as a denial of the past hour, like Dan could just walk back through the door at any moment with the flour, and they could just pick up where they left off. But the biggest part of him was filled with pointless adrenaline needing somewhere to go. Yes, the largest part of him just needed a task to shut off his mind for a while.

Phil left his phone on the couch and went to boil the kettle. While the water was boiling, he packed the camera away to the gaming room, put the ingredients back in their respective places, and wiped down the bench. The mechanical tasks kept his mind from focusing too much on any one thing, and when he was finally done, he could make his cup of tea with calm hands.

With one hand on the tea, and the other squeezing the life out of the lion plushy, Phil sat down to wait.

…...

Dan made his way to the lounge, where he could hear Phil on the phone. The conversation didn't last long, and when Dan finally got to the lounge room, Phil was cleaning. Dan blinked once, then twice.

Phil continued cleaning.

He was dead, and Phil was cleaning? He furrowed his brow for a bit before conceding that Phil didn't know he was dead yet. But still, _cleaning?_ He watched, puzzled as Phil packed away the food, and unscrewed the camera from its mounting on the tripod. His hands were steady and his expression dead. _Probably distracting himself._ Dan came to the conclusion easily, hoping more than knowing that it was correct.

But he was dead, and ghosts existed. He felt like he didn't know anything for certain any more. And while Phil was fairly predictable in his habits, at least to him, he was also the most random person Dan knew. It was one of the things he had always loved about him. They could be following the same train of thought, having the same conversation, when suddenly Phil's mind would pick a divergent path and end up wondering aloud if the loch ness monster was _actually_ an elephant swimming. Somehow they'd end up in a debate as to whether all elephants had underwater parties, or if Nessie was an antisocial elephant and hid out in the loch to escape the other land animals. Dan would start replying ironically, but half an hour later, they'd be on to 'what if penguins were actually the master race', and he'd have no idea how they got there. Phil's mind was an interesting place. He'd say it was unique, but Phil's mum was almost exactly the same.

And now Phil was cleaning. In response to being visited by the police and being told Dan was in hospital, Phil was wiping down the bench and making a cup of tea. He wasn't crying. He wasn't panicking, like Dan would be. He was just sitting quietly, staring at his cup and squeezing the life out of his little lion.

"Are you _actually_ just going to sit there, Phil?" he asked, a bit annoyed. He had no idea what Phil should be doing, but doing nothing in this situation seemed a bit wrong, somehow. Phil didn't answer, just kept staring at his tea. Dan waved his arms in exaggerated motions in front of Phil's face. " _Hello?"_ he projected his voice as much as he could without yelling. "Earth to Phil!" Phil didn't look up from his cup. Dan frowned, and crouched down until he was right in front of his friend's face. "The house is on fire," he said. No response. "Lord of the Rings is overrated." Nothing. "I'm in love with your mum and we're eloping to Mexico where we'll be served by a chimpanzee butler," he tried his hardest, but Phil didn't even blink. "Oookay, you definitely can't hear me," he sighed and lowered his arms. "Or see me," he added bitterly.

Dan stood up and paced the room. He had to be able to communicate with Phil somehow, otherwise, what the hell was the point of being a ghost? Was there even a point to it, or was it just random existence without meaning? Dan stopped pacing suddenly, his instincts telling him he was only one lap of the room away from an existential crisis – as a ghost. _Let's not tread those waters yet_ , he cautioned himself. Just focus on the task at hand. Get Phil to notice him. Dan's mind flicked back to when they had first met. _Again,_ his mind supplied, and he gave a wry smile. Get Phil to notice him _again_.

He'd tried sound, he'd tried vision. Dan though for a second before walking up to Phil and pushing at his friend's shoulder. Once again, his hand passed straight through. "Blech," he shuddered as he pulled his hand free. It still gave him the heebie-jeebies. It didn't really feel like anything, just tingly – like the hairs his arms standing up. Except he didn't actually have hairs, or even arms any more.

Phil didn't seem to notice the ghostly intrusion. Dan huffed in consternation. Cautiously, he reached out a hand again, one finger extended as if to poke him in the side. He'd watch this time, to see exactly how it happened. Just as his finger should have touched Phil's side, it started to disappear. But did his finger cease to exist, or was it passing through? He shuddered a bit at the thought of his limbs just disappearing into nothingness. He'd closed his eyes when he'd walked through the door, and he'd been too shocked when the police had walked through him, that he couldn't tell how it had worked. Had he disappeared on one side and reappeared on the other? Or had he passed through the middle of their bodies?

Dan cringed hard at the thought. Maybe that was an experiment for another time. "I hope you appreciate what I'm putting myself through for you, Phil," he said, withdrawing his hand. "I wouldn't willingly stick my finger inside just anybody." It took less than a second for Dan to realise what he'd said, and snorted. "Really, you're missing out." Dan straightened up from his crouch and sighed.

It seemed that nudging, or poking Phil wasn't going to get his attention, neither was talking. And he really _did_ need to let Phil know he was still here, even though it also meant letting Phil know that he was apparently dead. Dan looked around the room for ideas. What do ghosts usually do, except jump scares in movies? Move furniture? Appear in windows of sinister houses? Turn on random electronics in the middle of the night?

Dan glanced over his shoulder at the TV. He could give that last one a try. He didn't remember a lot about physics, but the one thing that had been pounded into him was that everything was made of energy. Electricity was energy. Ghosts were energy, too? Actually, he wasn't quite sure where ghosts would sit in physics 101, but at this point, there was nothing left to lose. Except his sanity. And to be honest, that was probably touch and go to begin with. Dan pursed his lips and approached the TV. Tentatively, he held his hand out towards the screen, thinking he couldn't have felt more like an idiot if he tried. Unbidden, his mind flicked back to the numerous cereal challenges he'd done for Krave. Ok, no, he'd definitely done stupider things, sometimes for videos, and sometimes just out of pure awkwardness. At least no one could see him trying to turn on a TV with the power of his mind.

Dan watched his hand disappear into the screen, and tried hard not to flinch. On a scale of 1 to 10 of the weird shit that had happened to him, this was an 85. He flailed his hand about through the screen for a few seconds, trying to feel any differences in the air. His hand was tingling where it was entering the screen. That was something, maybe. He tried moving it from the top to the bottom, and from side to side. Some parts of the air inside the TV seemed to tingle a bit more than others. "Electricity?" he asked no one in particular. One particularly sharp piece of air shocked him, and he clenched both his teeth and his hand, and for a second, there was a static noise from the screen.

Dan gasped in elation, and looked up at Phil expectantly, but after sparing the TV a quick glance with vacant eyes, Phil looked back down at his tea. "Philll!" Dan whined in frustration and fisted his hair. After a short dance of annoyance, he shoved both hands back into the screen. After a minute of searching, he found it again. A sharp feeling, like testing a battery with your tongue. When it passed under his hands, he grasped it, and squeezed, and the TV flickered on to Masterchef.

" _Yes!_ " Dan screeched, and thrust his hands up in victory. Phil snapped into alertness and spilled his tea on his lap. He quickly stood and swiped at the hot liquid before it could burn his legs. The lion fell gracelessly into the puddle of tea as it soaked into the carpet, and Phil snatched it up before it could get too wet. Grinning like a idiot, Dan basked in his accomplishment. He looked over to Phil, for what would normally be a high-five moment. Phil ignored the TV miraculously turning itself on, and clumsily wiped the tea off the lion plushy. He brushed at the wetness on his trouser leg, and looked at the tea slowly staining the carpet, and began to cry.

Dan's victory dance ended abruptly as he watched his friend crumple to his knees on the floor, hands over his mouth. "Oh no," he breathed. "Oh, Phil." Dan moved swiftly to comfort him, but his awkward pat on the back was doomed from the start, as he watched his hand disappear through his friends shoulder again. Eventually he gave up, and just knelt close by, his hands clasped in his lap and his eyes prickling with tears watching his best friend muffle sobs into a stuffed lion. He'd always taken a certain amount of pleasure in knowing there would be people who'd miss him if he died, but there was nothing good about this. If there was something worse than dying, this was it. He might be dead, but Phil was in pain, and all he could do was sit and watch. He'd been holding it together, and Dan had tipped him over the edge.

Phil hiccuped and gasped on the floor as Masterchef played an insensitive counterpoint in the background. Dan pushed his face into his folded arms and despaired. He really was the biggest twat the world had ever seen.


	4. Chapter 4

Eventually, Phil managed to get himself under control. In truth, he felt a little better from it. Though he was still almost insane with worry for Dan, letting it out into the open made it easier to deal with, somehow. It numbed it, or at least softened the edges. He spent a few minutes sitting on the floor, leaning back against the foot of the couch, his head tipped back. It was calming, just looking at the light fixture, thinking of nothing for a change. Not knowing if Dan was ok had been pressing at the inside of him, like he was an overfilled balloon. If he hadn't sat on the bloody TV remote and shocked himself into spilling his tea, he would probably still be trying to contain it. Dan would have laughed at him for doing that, if he'd been there. Phil blinked up at the ceiling, a late tear joining its fellows to drip down his chin.

"Please be ok," he said to the empty flat. He sniffed loudly and scrubbed at his face with his shirt sleeves, making it red and blotchy. Some people could cry prettily, like Catherine Zeta Jones. He was not one of those people. Pale skin made for red noses and cheeks, and throw in some post-bawl red eyes in there and it made for a pretty horrifying sight. There was certainly no pretending. Dan had called him out on it once or twice after a drunken cry over something insignificant. He'd given him a sideways hug and told him he looked like he'd been intimate with a beetroot. It wasn't the most comforting thing he'd ever heard, but it had made him laugh, and if Dan was good at anything, it was that.

"Don't you dare die," Phil hugged his knees, and the sound of Masterchef was abruptly silenced. He tipped his head to look at the TV, confused. "Oh," he said aloud, because suddenly the flat was too quiet. "Did I sit on the remote again?" Phil lifted his feet off the floor and felt around for the remote. It wasn't near his feet, where he thought it might be. Frowning, he pulled himself upright, his cheeks still feeling flushed from crying. A quick inspection of the floor next to the couch turned up nothing. The remote wasn't anywhere to be seen on the couch, either. Phil shoved his hands down between the cushions, and the TV turned on again. He must be leaning on it somewhere. Phil continued to check the back of the cushions when the sound disappeared again. The TV had turned off, and in the silence, he heard something clatter to the floor across the room.

Phil turned to look for what had fallen, and on the ground next to the television, was the remote control. All the way across the other side of the room. Not in the couch. He narrowed his eyes, looking at the remote control suspiciously. "Do we have a ghost, then?" he walked cautiously towards the TV. "Or is it mice?" he cocked his head, eyes darting between the screen and the control, not wanting to miss anything. "Or maybe ghost mice?" Phil bent to pick up the remote, keeping a watchful eye on the wires behind the TV, in case a family of mice decided to run up his arm. Nothing appeared.

He picked up the remote and examined it. It looked normal. No teeth marks or mouse gnawings at the buttons. No dodgy batteries. Phil looked up at the television screen again, and in that instant, it turned itself on. He breathed in sharply and looked back down at the remote. He definitely hadn't pressed anything. This was getting spooky.

Masterchef was ending and turning into the evening news. Phil reached towards reached towards the screen, not sure what he was looking for, but wanting to confirm that it was real. He had no idea what he expected to happen, but when his fingers extended, they poked the corner of the screen, just like they should. And in an instant, he went from being the guy _'investigating phenomena',_ to being the paranoid guy randomly poking the news reporter in the neck on his TV. He felt like an idiot.

But when someone knocked at the door, he still jumped a foot.

Dan would definitely have laughed if he'd seen that.

Setting the remote back down on the table, Phil put on his brave face and went to answer the door for the second time that day.

…...

Dan almost tore his hair out when Phil left to answer the door. He'd been so close to figuring something out. Or he'd at least been close to asking to right questions. Ghost mice. Really? But at least he'd been on the right track.

Dan could hear Kathryn's voice from the hallway and the sound of the front door closing. It must have been his mum that Phil had called earlier, which would make sense. And while he was annoyed that Phil had been distracted from his quest to explore the supernatural, he was glad that Phil had his mum here for him. She was just the person he'd need in this situation. Level-headed, loving, and knowledgeable. She'd know what to do, and what to say to put his friend at ease, and help him through what was to come.

Dan pulled his hand out of the TV, and tried swiping at the remote again. It didn't move. Whatever he'd done before to send it crashing to the floor might have been a fluke. But perhaps it was a fluke that could be repeated. Maybe he'd explore that later. Dan went to lean against the bench, out of the way. What little of the sun that had been visible in the gloom of London was disappearing for the day. The sky outside the window had gone a cold grey, and the street lights had begun their shift for the night. The flat was almost dark now, lit only by the hall light, and the glow of the various electronics hooked up to the television. He shifted against the bench nervously, before laughing at himself.

The darkness still made him uncomfortable. It was ridiculous, really. As an adult, it was bad enough, as a ghost, it was laughable. He was sure that some of it was the existentialist in him, considering the nothingness of the void, and the pointlessness of life as its temporary opposite. Total darkness reminded him that nothingness was the final destination of all living things. Darkness was a preview of what was awaiting.

Dan shook off the thought before it could consume him again. The sensory deprivation of night time had a way of making you think about things you'd rather not. Besides, in light of recent developments, that theory might need some revision. But failing existential crisis, there was always the fear of what could be lurking in the darkness, unseen. He had no problem admitting that supernatural things scared the living shit out of him, but in the same breath, he'd deny their existence. He couldn't fall back on that now. The past half a day had shown that belief to be nothing but a comforting lie. Whereas, the inconvenient truth had him pondering things like: _If I can effect electricity, then what are ghosts actually made of?_ And: _If ghosts are real and can't be seen, what other invisible things might be hiding in the shadowy corners that he didn't know about?_

Of course, he was one of them now. One of the monsters under the bed. One of the ghouls in the attic. If all the other creatures were just like him, a bit confused and weirded out by the whole thing, then maybe the shadowy corners weren't as bad as he once imagined them to be. Maybe veteran ghosts just hung around and ticked items off their 'what to do if I ever become invisible' list. There were certainly enough online quizzes on the subject for some people to have a list. He was willing to bet that it would largely consist of pranks, with a good percentage dedicated to 'pervy stuff'. Dan rested his chin on the counter, remodelling his view of reality as as another inconvenient thought hit him. _If I can walk through solid doors, how am I leaning on this bench right now?_

He hastily pulled himself upright, before he could somehow fall through the counter top. At the same time, the kitchen lights turned on, and Phil and Kathryn walked in.

"Have you had anything to eat? Did you have some tea at least?" Kathryn set her bag down on the bench and turned to Phil, who was trailing behind.

"I did make some tea and clean up a bit," Phil made a face. "I spilt the tea, though." Kathryn glanced down at her son's trousers with a small nod.

"Yes, I can see that." She filled the kettle and set it to boil before turning back to Phil, who was looking at the floor, dejected. "Oh, come here," she tutted gently, spreading her arms wide. Phil shuffled into them and was wrapped in his mother's hug. After a few deep breaths, she held him at arms length and searched for his eyes. Dan watched awkwardly from the other side of the bench as Phil reluctantly met her gaze. He didn't say anything, but Kathryn gave him a tight smile and squeezed his arms. "Now you go and get a new pair of trousers on, and I'll make us a pot of tea and some dinner." Phil nodded once, and turned to the door. "And after we've had something to eat, we'll get a cab to the hospital."

"Mum, a cab is too expensive," Phil argued, half turning back.

"So you want to go on the tube, do you?" she asked, taking the words out of Dan's mouth. Phil's shoulders slumped.

"No."

"Well then," Kathryn turned to look through the cupboards. Dan watched her look for mugs for a second before saying:

"They're in the next -"

"The cups are one over. To the right," Phil interrupted him, and he pressed his lips together. Idiot. Of course they couldn't hear him. Kathryn opened the correct cupboard and sent Phil on his way with a little shooing motion. Dan head-desked on the counter top, trying to physically pound the new knowledge into his brain. He was a ghost. _Bang._ He was invisible. _Bang._ No one could hear him. _Bang, rattle._

"Oh, that was strange," Kathryn's voice filled the silence of the room, and Dan looked up. Phil's mum was looking at the teaspoon on the bench with a puzzled expression. "I wonder if we've just had a bit of an earthquake." Dan frowned at the teaspoon. Had he just moved that with his head? Kathryn shrugged it off and fetched the milk from the fridge.

"Wow, you're _dead_ new, aren't ye?" came a strange voice from over his shoulder. "Or is that new dead?" Dan squeaked. He jumped a full four feet backwards – a distance he didn't know he was capable of. "Oi, watch it, will ye?" came the voice again, in a thick Irish accent. Dan looked up, open-mouthed at the figure in front of him. A pointy-faced young man with a mop of thick blonde curls stood in front of him, rubbing at the side of his face. "It don't hurt when ye jump through me, but it doesn't half tingle."

Dan shook his head in disbelief, his mouth still hanging open. A million questions ran through his head at once, but he couldn't seem to find any words. Pointy face grinned and waved the air in front of him, as if to dispel Dan's awkwardness. It didn't work.

"Oh, don't worry about introductions," he said. "I already know who ye are. And as for me," he shrugged. "Well, I don't remember me name, so I can hardly tell ye, can I?"

Dan sputtered. "That's...that's not-"

"Oh," the nameless man's eyes went wide. "Oh wow," he said, his smile widening. "I'm your first, aren't I? Popped your cherry!"

Dan stood stiffly with one foot pointing towards the door. Every instinct he had was telling him to run, but the sound of Kathryn stirring milk into Phil's tea kept him rooted to the spot. Dan swallowed and tried to find his courage. Eventually he found it, curled up in a ball alongside his dignity.

"What are you doing here?" he tried for Christopher Robin, but it came out Piglet. "And what do you mean, first?"

Blondie held his hands up in the universal 'I come in peace' gesture. "Now, hold on there, Daniel," he said winningly. The fact that this guy knew his name did nothing to allay Dan's fears. If anything, it made it worse. "I'm not here for tricks," he continued. Whatever he meant by 'tricks' was anyone's guess. "What I meant, was I'm your first ghost. And as for what I'm doing here," he shrugged again. "Well, after you've been around for as long as I have, you'll come to learn that when you're a ghost," he paused for dramatic effect, and grinned. "There are no rules."

In the kitchen, Phil was taking the tea from his mum and thanking her. Leaning against the bench in front of them, standing with arms jauntily crossed, was a ghostly Irish lunatic that knew him by name. Dan had a feeling things were about to get complicated.


	5. Chapter 5

"To answer your question, I'm here because I want to be," the Irishman drummed his fingers on his crossed arms, looking at Dan expectantly. Dan's eyes flickered to the kitchen, where Phil and his mum were quietly sipping their tea. Anxiety made his chest tight and his face slack, but he had to say something.

"Listen mate," he inwardly cringed as a bit of unintended 'lad' crept into his voice. "You can't just break into people's houses and spy on them." Dan crossed his arms and tried his best to look threatening. He was tall – which worked in his favour, but he wasn't particularly fit, so he never quite knew how effective the intimidation factor was. "It's an invasion of privacy, and it's against the law."

Blondie was chin-to-chest, his face hidden by hair and his shoulders shaking. Dan had a sneaking suspicion he was laughing at him. Frankly, he didn't blame him. If he wasn't trying to be authoritative at the moment, he'd acknowledge that the last part, at least, had been ridiculous. After a beat, the mop of hair let out a giggle and a long wheezing sound – the kind you make when you're trying really hard to stop laughing, and failing badly. Dan pursed his lips and huffed.

"Yes, fine," he conceded, face flushed with embarrassment. "I'm aware that there is literally no one on earth who would arrest a ghost. But if you come into _my_ flat unannounced and uninvited, saying that you know who I am, I'm allowed to be pissed off. It's creepy," Dan lifted his chin, his confidence slowly filtering back. "And I live my life on the internet. I've seen levels of perverse shit that you would not believe. I _know_ what creepy is. Intimately."

The Irishman held up one hand and snickered, face still hidden by hair. "Stop," he gasped between giggles. "You're killing me!" He immediately dissolved into laughter again, this time at his own pun. Dan rolled his eyes upwards and waited patiently for the laughter to stop, fighting the smirk that tugged at his lips. Anger was hard to maintain when someone was barking like a seal in his lounge room. But maintain it, he would.

"What would you like for tea, Luv?" Kathryn said from the kitchen, and it drew Dan's attention like a shot.

"I don't know mum," Phil's voice was flat. "I'm not really hungry." His normally bright eyes were dull, much more than they were when he was merely tired.

"I'll have some!" chipped in the Irishman, twirling around to lean his elbows on the bench. Dan was at the bench and grabbing the back of the ghost's hoodie before he knew what he was doing. "Don't even," he growled, his anger suddenly very real. Blondie put his hands up in surrender, but his sincerity was ruined by a mocking smile.

"Alright, alright," he laughed. "Don't get your panties in a bunch." Dan scowled. The anger was not only real now, but easy.

"I'm serious," he tugged at the laughing man's hoodie. "Don't mess with the Lesters." The Irishman poked his tongue out.

"Oh yeah? What ye gonna do, then? Kill me?" He winked, and after a brief look of concentration, stepped backwards. Dan's hold on the hoody disappeared as his hand passed through the material. Blondie had somehow made himself incorporeal at will. He let his hand fall back to his side, but kept his wary gaze on the ghost. They'd effectively swapped positions, and now Dan was between the ghostly stranger and the Lesters. Even though the Irishman had just proven it didn't make any difference, the new positioning made him feel a bit less vulnerable.

"You have to eat something, Phil," Kathryn continued from the kitchen, an unreleased sigh straining her voice. "I know you don't want to, but you'll make yourself sick. And then you'll be of no use to anyone."

Dan half turned to watch as Phil agreed half-heartedly. The pointy-nosed ghost looked with interest over Dan's shoulder at the domestic scene.

"Your boyfriend, is he?"

"No," Dan snapped, and looked back at Phil. Kathryn was giving him the 'mother' look. The one that brooked no arguments. The one Phil usually caved to instantly, even if he complained about it later.

"Alright then," the Irishman placated. After a pause, he added: "It's fine though, just so ye know."

"He's not my boyfriend, he's my flat mate," Dan ground out. "And my best friend," he added in a softer voice, because to describe Phil as just his 'flat mate' seemed too wrong to stand uncorrected. Dan finally turned around. "I thought you said you knew who I was."

"I may have exaggerated."

Dan wasn't convinced. "You knew my name."

Blondie rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and jerked his thumb at the corridor. "Saw the poster in the hall. Dan's short for Daniel, in'nit?"

He was talking about the TATINOF poster. Phil had been so excited when it had come in the mail, and Dan had been just as chuffed, only he had hidden it better beneath layers of habitual sarcasm. They'd briefly argued over whether it was narcissistic to put it up, but eventually he'd caved. It was too much of an achievement to ignore, and there were too many good memories associated with it to leave it rolled up in a closet somewhere. Phil Lester had a talent for sneakily winning arguments without causing ripples. It was something he'd never managed to replicate.

"How about some take-out, then?" said Kathryn, interrupting his train of thought. "Or some cereal?" She was too busy looking through the pantry to notice her son swipe at his eyes and blink rapidly at the mention of cereal. But Dan saw Phil take a quick sip of tea to ease his throat before answering.

"I'll make myself a sandwich, mum," his voice was surprisingly level. Kathryn nodded her approval, and Phil went to open the refrigerator.

"I'll call us a cab while you're doing that, then," she said, and rummaged around in her handbag. "What's the number again, Phil?"

As Phil was giving his mother the phone number, Dan turned to check on the ghost, he found him so close that he almost head-butted him.

" _Really_?" He exclaimed, jerking his head away from the blonde's grinning visage. "Can you not?"

The ghost seemed unperturbed as he looked back to the kitchen to study its occupants. "I never looked at any o' my friends like that."

"Just, no."

"Seriously? He's cute. Not even some drunken fumblings?"

"I'm not answering that," Dan rebuffed.

Blondie grinned. "So that's a yes, then?"

"It doesn't matter if it's a yes, or a no. We're friends."

"Just saying. For something that doesn't matter, you're awfully defensive about it."

Dan clenched his jaw, hard.

"If you worked on the internet, you'd know why," Dan couldn't believe he was having this conversation again, with a ghost. "I actually have no problems with the idea, if that's what you're getting at. People can love who ever they want. They can be in a relationship with a cabbage, so long as it consents. But if I choose to be in a relationship with someone, then it's literally no one else's business but my own."

"And the other person," Blondie added.

"What?"

"No one else's business but your own, and the other guy," he clarified. Dan's eye twitched, in near perfect anime style. "Or girl," he amended quickly, sensing another blow up. "Whatever floats your boat, really."

Dan took a deep, calming breath. "If I wasn't already dead, I think I'd jump out the window," he snarked.

The ghost scrunched up his pointy nose.

"We've gotten off to a bad start, haven't we?" Dan couldn't help notice that he still looked a little pleased with himself.

"Yes," he answered without hesitation. Blondie bit his lip, the closest Dan had seen him come to a frown.

"Can we start over?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

The ghost looked back into the kitchen at Phil, who was half way through making his sandwich.

"Because you can't talk to him," he said, his tone void of laughter for once.

Dan's expression darkened. "Yes, thanks for bringing that up -"

"But I can show ye how."

"What?" his heart skipped a beat, and the Irishman smiled for a second, like he'd heard it.

"I can teach you how to talk to him, if you want."

"Yes," Dan replied immediately, and without thinking. "I mean, that would be much appreciated." The ghost grinned widely.

"So we'll start over then?" he held out his hand. Dan eyed it suspiciously for a second before shaking it. It was solid this time, but it felt weird. Not like a hand at all, but more like... He couldn't think of anything to compare it to. It was tingly like static, but cold like marble, only not as hard. It was kind of like touching something when your arm had gone to sleep. You knew you were touching it, but the actual sensation was awry.

"Weird, huh?" he smirked. "It only happens with other ghosts. I'd say ye get used to it, but ye don't really." Dan realised he'd been holding the ghost's hand for an awkwardly long time. He coughed and withdrew it.

"So, this is weird," Dan tried to bring it back. "You know my name, obviously, but I don't know yours."

"Yeah, I didn't think ye were listening the first time."

"Sorry," Dan said as a reflex. "I'm kind of bad at social situations."

"You don't say?" the ghost sassed him, and Dan gave him the point. He'd set that one up and walked straight into it, after all. "Either way," he continued. "Ye didn't miss me saying my name, because I didn't say it. I don't know what it is."

Dan quickly checked the kitchen. Phil was reluctantly eating his sandwich, and Kathryn was collecting the mugs rinsing them in the sink. He turned back to the ghost in confusion.

"How can you not remember your name?" Blondie shrugged, looking unconcerned.

"My guess is as good as yours," he said. "I always figured it had to do with the way I died."

"How did you die?" Dan back-pedalled a bit. "Wait, is that a rude question?"

"Nah, not for me." He thought for a second. "For some, maybe – if they're still bitter about it. But me, I can't remember that either."

"Weird," Dan couldn't think of anything else to say to that. The whole situation, and literally everything about it, was weird. "Did you never think to give yourself another name?"

Blondie scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"No point, really."

"Does it not make it easier when you're talking to people?"

"I don't talk to people much," he said, before correcting himself. "Or at all, really."

Dan choked a bit at that. This was a guy that didn't talk to people? He'd literally done nothing else since he'd arrived. And yet, the socially awkward part of him was cringing in sympathy, because he knew exactly what he meant.

"We've got that in common then," he said finally, going for honesty. "But if you're going to be my ghostly mentor, I'm going to need to call you something."

Dan turned just as Kathryn looked down out of the kitchen window.

"I think that's the cab, Phil," she said.

"I'll get my shoes," Phil replied, and padded off to his bedroom. Dan caught sight of his face as he passed. He'd never seen Phil look so bad, and he'd seen hungover Phil, jet-lagged Phil, and messy drunk Phil before. But just now, his friend looked hollow. After he left the kitchen, Kathryn stopped drying the mugs and looked at the door he'd left through. For a second, her face showed the worry Dan knew she must be holding back for Phil's sake.

"You'd best call me Patrick then," Blondie interjected from behind him.

Dan watched Phil's mum collect her bag and head out before turning his attention back to the ghost.

"Patrick?" he asked, still trying to shake off the shock of seeing hollow Phil. "You're Irish. Could you be any less original?"

The ghost appeared to ponder his choice. "Well, I _did_ always have a fancy for Mr Mephistopheles."

Dan heard the front door shut behind Phil and his mum. He wanted to follow them, and he was losing his window of opportunity to do it. He needed to make sure Phil was going to be ok, but at the same time, he knew it was a fool's errand. Phil was not going to be ok. But he had his mum there for him. Even if he did follow, there was nothing he could do – not without being able to talk to Phil. He needed to be able to communicate. Closing his eyes and chewing his lip, Dan wrenched his gaze away from the door and greeted his new ghoulish friend.

"Nice to meet you, Patrick. Teach me everything you know."


	6. Chapter 6

Phil sat on the edge of the couch in the visitor's lounge, the wooden frame pressing into his legs from beneath the cushions. The room smelled like coffee and chlorhexidine. The air was sterile and heavy with the dread of everyone who'd sat there before him. Dan was in surgery at the moment, and if all went well, he would probably be moved to critical care afterwards. No one would tell him any more than that.

It was exactly as he'd been told by the police. Only the family would be allowed to visit him in critical care, at least until he was stable enough to take more visitors. And everything was all dependent on how the surgery went. He was trying to be optimistic, but the truth was that Dan could die before he even got out of surgery, and there was absolutely nothing Phil could do about it. That was what got to him most. He was filled with a desperate anxiety, a need to do something, anything, to make sure Dan would pull through, but the only thing he could do, was wait and hope.

So Phil sat on the uncomfortable couch, stupidly telling himself over and over again how useless his presence at the hospital was, but knowing, somehow, that waiting at home would be unbearable. The coffee in his hands was slowly going cold, and his mum had yet to come back from her search for Dan's family. They either mustn't be here yet, or they were waiting somewhere else.

There was only one other family in the visitor's room. And they certainly weren't Dan's. In fact, the only way he could tell they were related was that they were sharing a couch. Two large women drank hot chocolate from sachets dug out of an overstuffed 'genie' handbag. Genie: in that it looked like the type of handbag that would produce anything you could wish for. Need a mint? Sure. Keys? Somewhere, definitely. Fishing rod? Easy. Giraffe? Maybe in the other pocket. Next to them sat a tall, severe looking man in a business suit who stared gravely into his coffee and said nothing. Lounging on a chair in the corner, scrolling mindlessly on a mobile, was an androgynous looking teenager who looked to be influenced by the scene culture. Although, Dan would probably argue with him for even vaguely implying that 'scene' was a culture.

He could almost hear Dan's argument for that one. It would be one of the well thought out arguments, like an essay with paragraph points, examples and conclusions. He'd probably start along the lines of: 'scene is not a culture, it's closer to a cultural appropriation of emo', and the verbal essay would grow from there. It was always that way with Dan. He either had a very well thought out and logical reason for why he thought he was right, or he would just shrug and jokingly say "it is what it is, get over it mate," and leave it at that. Like the word 'microwave' being an onomatopoeia. He could never quite convince Dan that it wasn't. But it didn't matter, either. When you lived together, differences either created tension, or banter. In their friendship, it was mostly the latter.

Phil gave his cup a squeeze and tried to think of something else. Thinking about Dan when he was potentially dying somewhere out of sight was making him want to cry again. It was pooling in his chest, tightening, and making it hard to breathe.

Swallowing thickly, Phil pushed the thoughts away and shifted in his seat to furtively study the other family. He would try and guess their story, or make one up for them. That would take his mind off things for a while.

The two women were sisters, most likely. No, definitely. They were the same build, and had almost the same haircut, though one of them had obviously tried the latest rainbow fringe look and let it fade out to weird pastel colours. A bold style choice for someone probably in their 60's, but he respected it. He liked to see people not afraid to give something different a go, and the rainbow look was colourful, and fun. So she was obviously the risk-taker of the two sisters. Or maybe not. Maybe the genie bag owner was into skydiving; or was a secret vigilante, and her bag transformed into a hover-car. Phil imagined the two ladies as a double act, fighting crime from their collapsible hover bag. It made him smile for a second. His next immediate thought was to let Dan in on the joke, and his smile instantly fell.

Phil quickly moved on to the tall man in the suit. He looked a bit like Slenderman, if Slenderman had a face and a moustache and didn't creepily hang around forests at night. Now _there_ was a video game they'd never play in the dark again. That had been legitimately terrifying. Phil stole another look at the impressive broom moustache. It was more John Cleese than Borat, but it was a fine line. He wondered if he needed one of those moustache protectors for his coffee cup, so he didn't get foam in the bristles. Maybe he also had a moustache hair net for when he went to sleep, so it didn't escape and go on night-time adventures.

The teenager was sneaking peaks at him through his fringe in between scrolling. Were they doing the same thing as he was? Was the scene kid people-watching too? Phil met their eyes for the briefest of seconds as they both looked up at the same time. The kid quickly looked away and blushed into their phone. Oh no. Phil knew that look. That was the 'I know your face from somewhere, but I'm too shy to do anything about it' look. A subscriber, maybe? He hoped not. It would be the worst possible timing. He didn't want to talk to anyone, and he certainly didn't want to answer any questions about why he was here, or why he was here without the other half of his duo. But to Phil's relief, the androgynous teen seemed to be content with the occasional glance. Thank god for social awkwardness.

Phil's mum walked in then, carrying a couple of individually packaged biscuits, no doubt from the hospital canteen. "All right, Luv?" she asked in a quiet voice, and handed him a biscuit. He nodded and shrugged.

"I'm alright, Mum." She gave him a sceptical look as he tore open the corner of the wrapper. "A bit tired," he added, to appease her, and dunked his biscuit into his cold coffee. It would have gone better with a hot chocolate, he thought, thinking of the sister's magical genie bag. "No news?" He asked, not expecting any.

"Nothing new," she sighed. "I don't think his parents are here yet, and they won't be able to tell us anything until after the surgery." Phil nodded absently, his face devoid of expression. "I think it's going to be a long wait, Phil." His mum looked concerned, and he nibbled on the corner of his biscuit. The white chocolate chunks were delicious, even soaked in cold coffee. He immediately felt guilty. It seemed wrong to be enjoying something on any level right now. His friend could be dying three rooms over, and he was sat here eating a biscuit. It was ridiculous, but he felt like a traitor.

"Are you sure you don't want to wait at home?" his mum suggested. Phil shook his head and continued to stare at his mug.

"No, I want to stay," he mumbled in reply, then remembered that she had already made the long trip to London that night, and added "But you should go, if you want to get some rest. You can use my bed. The sheets are clean – mostly."

"Not on your life, Child," she said firmly. "I'm not leaving you here alone. I just wanted you to know that it's probably going to be a long night."

Phil finally gave in, and leaned over to rest his head on his mum's shoulder. "Thanks, Mum," he said sincerely. She reached an arm around him and gave his shoulders a squeeze. It comforted him more than it should have. He was glad she was staying, because he had a feeling that she was right. It was going to be a very long night.

…...

"What do you mean, aura?"

Patrick shook his head, bewildered. "Ye mean to say, ye never heard of an aura?"

Dan tried to contain his incredulity, but escaped in a weird huff of a laugh. "Of course I've heard of an aura before. It's something psychics use to con people out of money." Dan affected a female voice. "Ooh, you are special! Your aura is gold and purple with chocolate sprinkles. You will meet your true love on a bus in the next three days," he mocked.

Patrick raised his eyebrows.

"Well this is going to be a good conversation," he said dryly. "I can tell."

"And your children will all have wings and will lead the world to salvation," Dan continued. "But sure, auras," he scoffed. "Why not? Everyone's opinions are valid."

The lanky ghost crossed his arms and waited patiently until there was silence.

"Are ye done?" there was a bite to his voice now that Dan hadn't heard before, but he couldn't help himself. Ghosts were one thing, but auras and crystals and psychics were an entirely new level of weird. So he shrugged and looked away like a surly teenager.

"Maybe," he mumbled.

"Good," Patrick unfolded his arms, but maintained his authoritarian vibe. "Ye clearly have something against that particular word, so I'll be a good teacher and call it something else, shall I?"

"That would probably help," Dan conceded after a second. Patrick pursed his lips in thought.

"Something science-y?" he asked, then cocked his head in doubt. "Ye _do_ believe in science don't ye?"

Dan spat out a laugh. "Of course I believe in science, why wouldn't I believe in -" he trailed off as he saw Patrick's smirk and realised he was being baited. "Oh, ok. It's like that, is it. Great," Dan went heavy on the sarcasm. He pulled a face at the ghost, who grinned and stuck his tongue out in reply. Dan's eyes were drawn to the mangled fleshy stump. If he wasn't mistaken, at some point, Patrick's tongue had been cut off. He tore his gaze away as quickly and as casually as he could, so he wouldn't be caught staring, but the ghost caught on.

"Oh right," he grimaced. "Sorry, I forgot about that. Not exactly a pretty sight, is it?"

"No, it's err...fine," Dan fumbled. "It doesn't look that bad, actually."

"You're a terrible liar, Daniel," Patrick gently mocked, and Dan flushed with embarrassment. "Don't worry," he quickly amended. "That's a good thing." Dan thought for a second before asking a tentative question.

"How..." he started, and paused to find the best way of phrasing the question.

"How'd I lose it?" Patrick jumped in. He shrugged dramatically. "Don't know. One of life's great mysteries, I'm sure."

"No" Dan said quickly. "That's not what I was going to ask."

"No?" The ghost looked intrigued. "Looked like ye were trying not to offend me, so I instantly thought of the most offensive question ye might ask me about it, and asked it for ye. Ye seem like the easily flustered type." Patrick winked at him. "Just thought I'd help ye out a bit." He flashed a roguish grin. "Although, for future reference, I'm not easily offended. Ye can ask anything ye like. I might not answer, but ye can ask all the same."

"Well, that's definitely not the most offensive question I could ask you," Dan ignored the 'dare you' look on Patrick's pointy face and continued. "But I'm going to leave that one _right_ alone. What I was going to ask, is: how are you able to speak so well with," Dan gesticulated wildly at his own mouth and Patrick stuck out his tongue stump for reference. "With not...everything there?" Dan finished at the same time as Patrick said "With no fucking tongue?"

"Yeah," Dan nodded lamely.

"That one, I can answer," he said with a flourish. "It's an aura thing," he laughed as Dan let out a frustrated little scream into his hands.

"Ok, ok," the ghost said after he got his laughter under control. "Don't pull ye hair out. We'll call it something different."

"Fine," Dan said quickly. He couldn't help but think that he might be wasting his time.

"How about..." Patrick's face took on a look of concentration. "Energy field? It's science-y, right?"

"I can work with that."

"Great!" he clapped his hand together. "Because it'd take a damn sight longer to teach ye anything if we couldn't even agree on the title of the subject."

"Good!" Dan exclaimed, relieved to finally have a starting point. "Fine! Great! Let's start."

"Brilliant. Fantastic. And now we're just exchanging adjectives. Shall we get down to it, do ye think?" Patrick launched himself up to sit on the kitchen bench, a sparkle in his eyes. Dan inwardly cringed. He'd had plenty of self-impressed teachers before, and most of them loved the sound of their own voice. He had a nagging feeling that Patrick might be one of them. But he supposed could spare a few moments for tangents and bants. Especially since he had multiple RAW video files as proof of how long _he_ could waffle on in his pre-edit recordings. Even when he thought the video was complete, it still had to pass the Phil 'waffle' test. There were definitely a few videos that would have been minutes longer without Phil's expert intervention. So he'd reserve judgement, at least for now. After all, he wouldn't want to come off as a hypocrite. Not this early, anyway.

Patrick shuffled on the bench, pushing some envelopes out of the way. "Ok then, first question: what is an energy field?"

Dan blinked. "You want me to answer that?" he asked, confused.

"Eventually, yes. But for now, I'll go easy on ye, and give ye brief oversight."

"That would be a good idea," Dan said mildly.

"Are ye ready for it?" Patrick rallied him like a cheer squad, and Dan found it hard to resist his enthusiasm.

"I am," he said with a bit more passion. "Educate me!"

"Right! For starters, everything in existence is made of energy. Rocks, trees, people, aliens, computers – they're all made of energy."

"Physics 101," Dan nodded, though he was unsure if the ghost was joking about the 'aliens' bit. Not a tangent he wanted to explore just yet.

"Exactly," Patrick agreed. "Physics 101. Easy. So everything is made of energy, and everything is surrounded-" he drew a large circle in the air with his hands "-by energy fields." The ghost picked up a phone bill from the bench, in one hand, and a pen in the other to use as props. It was a simple action, but it made Dan pause. Patrick was _holding_ a pen and paper. He was an intangible ghost holding tangible objects.

Dan raised his hand in the air. "Quick question," he interrupted.

"Yes?" Patrick asked.

"How the actual fuck are you doing that?"

The ghost looked from the pen in his left hand to the telephone bill, and then back to Dan with a frown. "You're skipping right to the end of the book there. Ye can't skip to the end of the book. Ye need to know the basics first."

"Why?" Dan asked churlishly.

Patrick pointed the pen in his direction and gave him a long-suffering look. "Ye'll know why when I teach ye the basics. Ye don't read Shakespeare after learning the alphabet. Well, not directly after, anyway."

Chastened, Dan nodded. Not two minutes into the lesson and he'd already been scolded. So far it was feeling a lot like school.

"So," Patrick held the pen and the bill next to each other and continued. "These two inanimate objects are made of energy, and the energy field is what happens in the space around them, and in between them." He brought the pen and paper closer together, and pulled them apart again. "An energy field is the specific energy of an object. And the specific energy of one object -" he held up the pen, "- can interact with the specific energy of another object." He held up the phone bill. "Because energy is never static. It doesn't stand still, even in solid objects, like these." Dan looked sceptical, but Patrick ignored him in favour of the pen and paper. "They communicate with each other, to a degree."

"...Right," Dan reserved his judgement once again, and hoped that this was more relevant than it seemed.

"I can see ye don't believe me," Patrick put the pen and paper down, and thought of another example. "If ye were to rub a balloon on your head and then hold it above your hair, what would happen?"

"Other than a bad hair day?."

"Static electricity. Ye hair would stand on end, right?"

"Depends on how much dry shampoo you've used recently," Dan quipped. Patrick shot him a quelling look and continued.

"So the balloon, when it's rubbed against ye head creates a charged space between ye head and the balloon. The space in between is excited now. It has energy. And when the static discharges, there is an exchange of energy between the balloon and ye hair. And then between ye feet and the ground, but we'll ignore that bit for now."

"So...the energy field is the excited space?" Dan tried to wrap his head around it. Maybe he should have just let Patrick run down the 'aura' track. This was sounding an awful lot like the physics classes he'd taken as a teenager, and forgotten most of as an adult.

"Yes, and no," the ghost replied, unhelpfully. "The more excited the space between objects is, the more potential there is for a bigger exchange of energy. Like lightning. But the excited space by itself, is really just a measure of the potential for energy exchange. It does usually happen inside a combined energy field though, where the energy field of two objects overlap."

Dan felt that one fly over his head and he nodded mechanically, hoping the ghost wouldn't notice the slightly panicked glint in his eye. Apparently he did, because next he knew, Patrick picked up the pen and paper again as props. When he spoke next, it was slow and deliberate, and Dan couldn't help but feel like he'd been downgraded to primary school science in Patrick's mind.

"This pen, has a pen-specific-energy field, and this paper has a paper-specific-energy field. If ye bring them close enough together, the energy fields overlap and ye get a combined energy field where the pen and the paper can exchange their _specific_ energy. Now, some energy moves easier than others, like static electricity. But that's what ye call a transitional energy. It still operates inside a combined energy field, but it's more direct. It's like electricity arcing over circuit, ignoring all the complicated wiring in between. The combined energy field itself is more like the circuit board, where complex information is stored and exchanged, if ye follow."

Dan didn't. The guy said 'specific energy' a lot, like it was a thing. Who the hell would understand that? Dan nodded anyway. This was reminding him of school in more ways than he would have thought. Meanwhile, it seemed as though Patrick was going to ignore Dan's confusion and just push on.

"Electricity and other transitional energy types move easily, which was why you could muck around with the TV, but not speak to your friend. Object-specific-energy fields are closer to what your psychics would call an aura. It's attached to the object, like a bubble of information. It's more reluctant to fluctuate and exchange, but it does, in complicated ways. It reacts to the environment around it, and it communicates with the things it touches. Not like soup heating up your spoon. Heat's just another transitional energy, like electricity. It's more like your spoon and your soup are having a conversation, and next thing you know, they're doing each other's hair and nails, and then you have a spoon with a load of soup make-up on, and some soup with a bit silver spoon hair dye. Or something like that."

Dan held up a hand to pause the overenthusiastic lecture for a second. "So, just to clarify," he said slowly. "A pen has pen energy, paper has paper energy, and the space between them has...pen-paper energy?" he looked at Patrick, praying to whoever was listening that he was on the right track, and trying really hard not to get the PPAP song stuck in his head. He'd said 'pen' too many times in a row. He needed, deep in his soul, to stop talking about pens, right now.

The ghost looked put-out, and for a second Dan thought he'd gotten it horribly wrong and Patrick was about to give up. But after a beat, Patrick deflated with a angry puff of air. "That's a much easier way of explaining it." He actually looked annoyed. Dan gave himself a mental high five for understanding anything out of all that.

Eventually, Patrick rallied his good humour and ticked off the different types of energies on his fingers. "So we have object-specific-energy, or _pen_ -energy if ye like," the ghost twirled the pen in his fingers. "The pen creates a pen-energy field – which science doesn't really go into much. At least, I don't think they do.

"We have transitional energy like electricity and heat and such, which science is in a pretty heavy relationship with. And last, but not least, we have the excited space between objects – which is the potential for both transitional energy exchanges and object-specific-energy exchanges. The more excited the space, the more likely an exchange of transitional energy is – like static or lightning. Object-specific-energy, or _pen_ -energy, is more passive, and less easy to manipulate with charged spaces, but there _is_ a correlation between the two." The ghost spread his arms wide theatrically and flashed him a grin. "Now, as ghosts, what do ye think we're made of?"

Dan was about as far from being an idiot as you could get. Questioning his understanding of reality was something he did on a semi-regular basis, but combining that with physics was turning his brain inside out. He'd thought he'd understood some of it, but then Patrick had yelled 'energy' at him in 100 different ways for 30 seconds, and he'd gone glassy-eyed again. So he did what he would normally do in school when some teacher had been rambling and he'd stopped paying attention. He repeated the last word he'd heard, and guessed.

"Energy?"

"No," Patrick said, but he didn't seem deterred, or even alarmed. "We are the _potential._ We are the excited space that allows the movement of energy to pass. That's why it was so easy for ye to turn the TV on and off. Ye were basically acting as a big electrical wire, shorting out the system."

Dan sighed heavily. Could ghosts get headaches? He was pretty sure Patrick would know the answer to that, but he definitely wasn't going to ask.

"So how does that translate into you picking up a pen and paper, exactly?" Dan dreaded the answer, but it was what he was here for.

"I'm balancing the potential between the pen and a fixed source of energy."

"You what?" Dan was definitely getting a headache. "How does that relate to you holding a pen?"

"I'm not holding the pen." Patrick slowly lowered his hand away from the pen he was twirling. The pen continued to twirl in mid-air above his hand.

Dan felt the air leave his chest in a strange, high-pitched giggle. Floating pens. Now he was 110% done. He almost said it aloud before he realised that he couldn't walk away from this. He needed to learn how to do this. He needed Phil to know he wasn't...gone.

"Well, I'm not holding it physically, anyway." Patrick either didn't notice his crisis, or ignored it, as the pen continued to rotate. Dan took a shaky breath and looked at the wall so he wouldn't have to see it spin. "I'm creating a relationship between the pen and the bench by manipulating the potential between them." Dan nodded woodenly, still looking at the wall. He heard, more than saw Patrick jump off the bench. Suddenly the pen appeared in front of him, thankfully, held once more by a ghostly hand. Now _there_ was something he never thought he'd be happy to see: a ghost holding a pen.

"Here," he said encouragingly. "See if ye can feel any of that pen energy we were talking about. It should feel a bit different than the electricity in the television. More sedate."

Dan looked at the pen extended in front of his face. "So we're calling it pen-energy now?"

"Yep," Patrick shrugged. " _You_ started it. Besides, it's short, and it works."

Dan took a calming breath and held his hand up to the pen, trying not to feel like an idiot. What was he talking about? He was standing next to a ghost, trying to feel the energy of a pen. Of course he felt like an idiot.

His hand hovered next to the pen. It was the one Phil had accidentally stolen from a bank after signing for his new account. He'd been too embarrassed to return it, so they'd just kept it. It was a good pen. Why not? Dan couldn't feel any difference between the air and the supposed pen-energy-field.

"Try getting a bit closer," Patrick must have noticed his consternation. Dan lowered his hand until it was almost touching the pen, and he felt a slow tug on his fingers, like the pull of an underwater current. It felt like it wanted to move, and yet it felt strangely stable compared to the electricity in the TV. Dan looked up at Patrick with a question in his eyes. The ghost was ready with a knowing smirk.

"Ye feel it, don't ye?" he sounded smug.

"Maybe," Dan said dismissively, and turned his attention back towards the pen. He reached his hand out again, determined to see if he could touch it. The pen energy beckoned his fingers in, and the pull got stronger the closer he got. His face was a mixture of intense concentration and disbelief as he finally touched one finger to the pen.

Patrick yelped as a spark flew into the air. The pen dropped clean through his hand, drawn diagonally through the air towards Dan's feet until it clattered harmlessly on the ground. Dan jumped back.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed. "What the hell was that? What just happened?"

Patrick brushed his hands against his jumper. "Ye just cancelled out my balance between the pen and the floor, is what happened." He sounded excited. "I always wondered how that would work."

"And what does that mean?" Dan immediately wished he could call his question back, but it was too late. He steeled himself for another rambling lecture.

"I was manipulating the potential in myself to push the ground and the pen apart by creating a kind of positive pressure between them," he started, picking the pen up off the floor. "Because ye weren't focussing on pushing the pen away from the ground, our potential was different. So when ye touched it, ye acted as a big earthing wire and shorted us all out. Drained the energy balance away in a second flat."

"So what you're saying is, you dropped the pen?"

"What I'm saying is, ye _made_ me drop the pen."

Dan shot him a look of mock pity. "Bit defensive, are you?" Patrick just laughed.

"Ooh! He has a bite!" he looked delighted at the discovery. "This _is_ going to be fun. I was worried ye might be boring for a second there. But a bit o' bite makes it better."

"Boring?" Dan was almost offended. "Did you just call me boring, _mate_?"

"Oh, poor Daniel. Did I hurt your feelings?" Patrick teased him.

"Didn't hurt _my_ feelings," Dan sniffed haughtily. "All I'm saying, is that you can call _me_ boring, but I'm not the one who just used the word 'energy' 3 times in every sentence for the past ten minutes."

The ghost narrowed his eyes mischievously. "Do ye want to go back to aura then?"

Dan bared his teeth and sucked in a long breath, ending in a very quiet: "No."

"Because I'm happy to go back to aura if ye like," Patrick fluttered his eyelashes winningly.

"No!" Dan said a bit louder than necessary.

"Well if you're sure. I wouldn't want to bore ye," the ghost's eyes were almost sparkling, and his pointy nose was twitching with suppressed laughter.

"Ahh! For god's sake!" Dan gave in. "Would you just tell me how to hold the ground and the pen apart?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Patrick winked, and Dan groaned.

"Just tell me?" he pleaded. He must have sounded convincing enough, because the ghost let the crinkles near his eyes smooth, and the wild grin settled into a patient smile.

"Did you feel the pull of the pen's energy field?" he asked, though he already knew what Dan's answer would be.

"Yes," Dan replied dutifully.

"It's a natural reaction for energy to want to arc towards a negative potential. That's our natural state. Energy flows from places of higher concentration to lower concentration. It's all nature. We need to change our potential to -" Patrick paused and took in Dan's blank look. Dan gave an apologetic grin, and the ghost put the pen on the edge of the bench so half of it hung over the lip. Dan looked back up at his teacher expectantly.

"Ye felt the pull," he said simply.

"Yep."

"Get close enough that you can feel it again, then try and reverse that feeling. When ye can do that, I need ye to do the same thing with your feet and the ground. Ye should feel the energy of the floor reaching through your body towards the energy of the pen. Ye need to push against both of them. If ye let them meet in the middle, you're going to have a pen on the floor again."

Dan nodded and reached his hand up underneath the part of the pen that hung over the edge of the bench. Sure enough, when he got close enough, he started to feel the pull in his fingers. He extended his focus to his feet, and noticed a slight tug from the floor reaching up through his body.

"Think about jumping," Patrick's voice broke through his concentration.

"What about jumping?"

"The feeling of jumping is about pushing away from the floor. That's the feeling ye need to focus on in your feet."

So Dan resumed his position, but this time, when he felt the pull of the floor, he thought about jumping. Nothing happened. The pull was still there. The tugging from the floor brought to surface a lingering thought that had been keeping him on edge. The nagging question of what was keeping him from falling through the floor. It was a small well of anxiety bubbling in his stomach. He could ask Patrick, but he had no idea if the answer would make him feel better or worse. If the answer was that you could actually fall down past the centre of the earth, then he really didn't want to know.

"Quit stalling. Focus on jumping."

"Right," Dan snapped out of his trance and focussed on the feeling of jumping. He felt the pull of the ground, and tried to counter it with the memory of the feeling his legs would get as they gathered to jump. He wasn't sure if it was his imagination or not, but it seemed like the pull of the floor wavered a bit. Buoyed by the small success, Dan pushed the thought harder. The pull of the floor receded violently, then returned, like gravity on a trampoline.

"Good," Patrick called out his encouragement, and Dan briefly wondered how he knew what was happening. Could he see it? Was it really more like a aura? "Keep your pressure steady though, and ye can avoid the backlash. Your connection to the floor is the base you'll work off for most things, so once ye have this one down, the rest should be easy. Probably."

He pushed with his mind against the tug of the floor, gradually increasing the feeling of jumping in his body until the ground's pull seemed to even out into a comfortable balance. It was a strange tension, almost like maintaining a half crouch in feeling only. In body, he was standing normally. The mismatch of body and mind was a bit alarming, but the lack of pull from the floor seemed to bring everything into an odd kind of alignment.

"Looks like ye have it," Patrick said evenly, and Dan was grateful for the gentler tone. His concentration was working hard on this one. Any distraction might see him lose the balance. "With time and practice, this part will be easy." He walked smoothly around to Dan's side. "Now see if ye can do the same for the pen. But ye need to do it with all the parts of your fingers that would normally be touching a pen. Keep the pressure equal, and bring it up gradually until it feels balanced. Then ye should be able to pick it up."

Dan breathed slowly, maintaining his focus on his feet and trying trying to let himself feel the pull of the pen at the same time. When the pull started, he held his breath and gently pushed back against the pen. But as he pushed with his fingers, the pull of the floor tugged harder again. The moment he felt it, his concentration flew out the window. The gentle push he had against the pen turned into a shove, and the pen flipped end to end across the kitchen and skittered along the floor. He let out all his breath at once, and groaned a long groan.

"That was quite good, up 'til then," and Patrick actually did look impressed. "It will get more natural with practise."

Dan sighed for what felt like the millionth time that night. He felt like if he could've just written Phil a note by the end of the night, he'd be on the right track. But it was looking unlikely that he'd even be able to hold the pen by then. Dan gritted his teeth as Patrick went to pick up the pen from the floor like it was effortless.

"How long did it take you to learn how to do this?" he was almost afraid of the answer. Patrick set the pen back on the bench, his expression distant.

"Everyone's different," he stated. Dan cocked his head. Did Patrick just avoid an answer? One way to find out.

"Yeah, but how long did _you_ take?"

"I had to figure this out by myself, so longer than most, I guess."

"So you've taught others, then?" Dan was looking sideways at his new ghostly friend, suddenly realising that he knew almost nothing about him. Patrick's face was closed off as he looked vacantly towards the open curtains.

"A few," he replied vaguely, and Dan got the impression he meant more than just a few.

"How long have you been...around...exactly?"

At this question, Patrick looked Dan full in the eyes and gave him a tight little smile. "Are ye gonna write that letter or not? Because if ye don't practise, you might fall through the floor before ye ever hold a pen."

There was no laughter in his eyes, despite the smile on his face, and Dan backed off. He'd asked the wrong thing, clearly.

"Right, right. I'm on it," he said as he turned back to the task. It was only when he was reaching out for the pen that he realised he'd never mentioned that he wanted to write a letter, or that he was afraid of falling through the floor. The thought stopped him for a moment before he returned to thinking about jumping. He didn't have time to second guess his teacher right now. He needed to know how to do this, whatever Patrick's motives were. As he focussed on pushing against the floor's subtle tug, he knew there was at least one thing he could be sure of.

Tonight was going to be a very long night.


	7. Chapter 7

_A.N: Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry! I moved house and had no internet for a few months. It was a fate I would wish on no person! I was Dan and Phil deprived for a long, long time, and got suffocated in the other fandoms I had saved on my computer. I'm a terrible person, and easily distracted by shiny things. But hopefully, after many months of absence, I can claw my way back into this fic. I will finish this if it kills me. And then I shall be a Ghost-writer...(I also apologise for that joke. Fml.) - JinSol._

In the end, it took Dan until 3am to be able to pick up the pen. At that point, Patrick had left him to it, and disappeared through the wall with a promise to return after his appointment. What kind of appointments ghosts had to keep was a mystery for another day. He needed all his concentration for the task ahead. As it was, it took another hour and a half before he was able to manoeuvre the pen in his hand without breaking concentration and dropping it.

Or flinging it across the room.

Or falling through the floor.

By 5am, his brain was melting, but he'd been able to write on the bottom of the phone bill in child-like writing:

"I'm not gone

Dan."

He'd managed to sign it and move the paper to the centre of the bench before he fumbled the pen and collapsed in pure exhaustion. Mental exhaustion - because apparently being a ghost meant that you didn't have to sleep, eat or shit any more, but concentrating on a single task for hours on end was still going to leave you wrecked.

And he was most definitely wrecked. He'd been lying on the floor and staring at the dimly lit ceiling for more than an hour now, and he still had no motivation to move. Or think.

When he finally began to hear the sounds of the city waking up, he shifted his gaze towards the window. The artificial light outside was starting to lose out to the approaching sun, and the sky was lightening from black to cold grey. Dawn was on its way.

Some mad joggers would no doubt be powering their way through the empty streets, and Dan sighed heavily at the the thought that tome people actually got up at this time. Voluntarily. He was exhausted just thinking about it. Dan was once again seeing the dawn the only way he ever seemed to: not by waking up early; but accidentally, at the other end of a long and sleepless night.

The clock on the microwave flashed 8.30 before he heard the footsteps on the stairs. The sound had him sitting bolt upright and looking hopefully towards the door. Suddenly he knew how dogs felt when their owners arrived home.

The door opened and Phil did a kind of zombie-shuffle through the door. Kathryn followed closely behind.

"Go and get some rest, Love," she said with a tired smile, and Dan could see the worry making its home on her brow. Phil didn't look fully back at her, but nodded. He looked dead on his feet. The last time Dan had seen him so tired was when they had toured in Australia, and the jet lag had really set in. But even then, he'd been cheerful on some level. The Phil that had just walked through the door looked utterly drained. It looked like someone had sucked his soul out, dementor style. Still, Phil managed to quirk his lips a bit and mumble a "Thanks Mum," before he dragged himself down the corridor.

Dan looked back at his note on the bench with a twinge of disappointment, but followed Phil down the corridor. It would be better if he read it when he was truly awake anyway, and right now, Phil was only awake on a technicality. He was standing and his eyes were open, more or less, but he was not awake.

So Dan watched over Phil as he brushed his teeth, and removed his contacts, and feeling a bit voyeuristic, trailed along behind as Phil swayed down the corridor to Dan's room? Wait, why was Phil going to _his_ room? Dan did a mental run down of the state he'd left his his room in the previous day. It was messy, there was no avoiding that. There were definitely clothes on the floor, but Phil was used to that already. After a few seconds of panic, he concluded that he hadn't left anything out that was too mortifying. Nothing that Phil didn't already know about, anyway. Even if there was, there was nothing he could do about it now. If it had taken him all night to pick up a pen, it would take him a century to clean up his room, and Phil was already pushing open the door.

Dan peered over Phil's shoulder as he paused in the door. Clothes littered the floor in one corner – the corner that never faced the camera, and his bed covers were still pushed to the side with socks peeking out the end from where he'd kicked them off during the night. Next to him, Phil let out a weary sigh and entered. Dan watched as he straightened the pillows and doona with the last of his energy, before crawling under the covers on the unclaimed side of the bed. Just before his dreams dragged him under, Phil reached out for Dan's pillow and hugged it tight to his chest. With his face scrunched up against a few last, exhausted tears, Phil's body finally relaxed in sleep.

Dan swallowed thickly at the lonely circles of tears Phil had made on his pillow, before backing out of the room. He'd never seen Phil look as bad as he did now - not in the entire time he'd known him. There had been times of grief, or anger, or resentment for sure; but they were short and sharp. They were more like bumps in an otherwise smooth road, where recovery was certain after time. This was different. He'd never seen Phil look like this. Like he'd lost hope. Like he wanted to give up. No.

Like he'd decided to give up.

He shot one last worried glance at his sleeping friend before padding down the corridor. Phil's mum was settling down in Phil's room as he passed. Apparently neither of them had the energy to set up the futon for sleeping. After spending the whole night concentrating more intensely than he had since his finals, he could relate. It felt like his mind had been pushed through a sieve, and all he'd managed to achieve was to write four words that Phil hadn't even read.

Dan walked back into the kitchen and glanced at the note. It didn't even look like his hand writing. _"I'm not gone."_ Really. It could mean anything. It could have been written at any time.

Dan swiped at the paper in a fit of impotent rage, and the paper fluttered weakly to the floor. He swore at it and kicked the stupid thing. It didn't move and inch, and because no one could hear, he swore again, and suddenly an avalanche of frustration and bile tore its way free. He ranted at the paper on the ground, he tried to throw the ridiculous pen across the room, and when his hands repeatedly passed through it, he finally gave up and screamed at the only four, bloody, fruitless words he'd managed to write.

After he'd finished, he slid to the ground, his back against the refrigerator, breathing heavy. Except for the paper, the room was unchanged by his anger. The pen still sat innocently on the bench, mocking him. _"I'm not gone."_

Really. If he'd had to choose four words, he could have started with "I'm a ghost." It was more to the point _and_ it couldn't be mistaken for anything else. It even had less letters. But something about seeing Phil in distress turned him into an idiot. And so he had written the most stupidly ambiguous message possible.

Dan dropped his head into his hands and groaned. He let himself wallow in it for about two minutes before he pulled himself together. These days, he knew himself well enough to know that if he didn't keep a leash on that particular black dog, it'd drag him down the garden path, and the day would be gone. That wouldn't help him, or Phil. So after a few seconds, Dan scrambled off the floor, shook off his exhaustion as best he could, and planned.

 _'I'm not gone_ ' clearly wouldn't work. The leap from _'I'm not gone'_ to _'Dan's a ghost and is still hanging around the apartment'_ , was too big. Even for Phil's unlikely mind. So he'd need another note. One that Phil could not pass off as a coincidence, or something written before the accident.

Dan looked at the pen on the bench and sighed. At least he had the basics down now, and Phil would probably sleep for at least a few hours – probably much longer – so he had some time to get it right.

If he could pick up the paper and put it back on the bench, that would be a starting point at least. And maybe if Patrick came back from whatever meeting he was at, he might have some suggestions. Dan glanced back at the pen on the table, and out of the corner of his eye noticed something. Almost hidden underneath a pair of oven mitts was a black sharpie.

And for the first time that morning, Dan smiled.

He had an idea.

…...

Phil rolled over and forced himself to open his eyes. Sleep still clung to him, urging him to bury his head in the covers and go another round, but he knew if he did, he'd regret it later. His eyes felt crusty and sore, and rubbing them didn't help. At least he'd remembered to take out his contacts. Leaving them in overnight never ended well, and always made him look hungover. Of course, most of the times he'd accidentally left them in, he had actually woken up with a hangover anyway, so it might not have been a coincidence.

He felt hungover now. He felt gritty, hollow and under-hydrated, and the light shining in the window was coming in at the wrong angle – which meant it was probably already afternoon. Phil groaned and turned onto his side, burying his face in the pillow on the opposite side of the bed. It smelled strange. Phil wrinkled his nose and looked at it through scratchy eyes. It wasn't his pillow. It was Dan's pillow.

Scrunching up his face in confusion, Phil raised his head and looked around. He was in Dan's room. That explained why the lighting was wrong. The clock on the bedside table told him it was well into the afternoon, so maybe that was it, too. The bed next to him was cold and empty, and suddenly the sleepy fog cleared from his mind as everything came back to him.

Dan. Dan wasn't here. He'd been hit by a car. Phil froze, staring at the moon mirror on the wall as the whole sorry day crashed over him. Of course Dan wasn't home. He was in the hospital. On life support. Because Phil had forgotten to buy flour. Because he had gotten distracted. Again.

The feeling sank slowly into his chest, making its home just beneath his ribs like a hollow ball. The feeling of emptiness was heavy, and crept up into his throat, making it tight. He didn't know what to do with it. Without the adrenaline rush pulling him every which way, he had no plan, no preoccupation. Just a hollow feeling where his chest should be.

Phil looked around Dan's room. There were clothes on the floor that Dan must have thrown there yesterday whilst looking for the pastel outfits they'd planned for the video. So many small things lay around the room, tasks half completed, thoughts half finished. How long would it be until Dan would come back to them? Phil swallowed against the lump in his throat. Would he ever be back to finish them, or would these be the last things he ever touched? The moon mirror had no answer for him, and Phil closed his eyes for a second against the prickle of tears and pressed a hand against the hollow space under his sternum. Suddenly the house felt so empty.

His reverie was interrupted by a soft clattering sound from the kitchen. His mum, trying to find some breakfast, probably. He couldn't very well leave her to struggle on her own. Phil sucked in a bracing breath and rolled out of the bed, pulling up the grey and black comforter and smoothing it until there were no wrinkles. It felt solemn, somehow, even though he knew Dan would probably be pulling a face at him if he were there. Phil straightened Dan's pillows and pulled his hand back reluctantly. Maybe he'd get to tell Dan about it later, so they'd have something to laugh about. Phil sighed.

Maybe not.

Phil made his way back to the corridor, almost tripping on Dan's Haru pillow hiding down beside the bed. He scowled at it tiredly, but still put it back in its rightful place before continuing. First thing's first. He needed to get his glasses. They were probably still in his room. Phil padded down the corridor, yawning, and opened to door to his room. The blinds were shut, and he could see a Mum-shaped lump under the covers. She groaned and turned around as he entered.

"Phil?" she asked, he voice still heavy with sleep? Phil saw his glasses folded on the bedside table and quietly snatched them up.

"Just me, Mum," he said replied softly. She cleared her throat, which told Phil that she'd been sleeping deeply.

"Everything ok? What time is it?"

Phil tried to conjure up a smile, and almost succeeded. "It's about half-two. I'm just getting my glasses."

"Ok," she yawned. "I'll be up soon."

"No, it's ok. You should sleep more," Phil put his glasses on. He already feeling guilty enough making her stay up with him all night, let alone waking her up. "I'm just making some coffee."

"Mmm-hmm," she sighed. "Make me a tea, Love?" Phil did smile a little then.

"Ok Mum," he agreed as he gently closed the door. "You stay there, I'll bring it to you."

As the door closed, Phil puzzled over the sound in the kitchen. He had been sure his mum was already awake. Maybe a fridge magnet had fallen off. Pushing his glasses off his nose, Phil shrugged and went to the kitchen to fill up the kettle. He was still yawning when he stopped in the kitchen doorway. On the floor in front of him, was a sharpie. An uncapped sharpie. And poking out from underneath the fridge was a folded sheet of paper.

Confused, he scratched the back of his head before bending to pick them up, fishing at the corner of the paper for a second before he could manage to get a hold of it. It was a telephone bill. He'd remembered seeing it on the bench earlier this week. It probably just caught a breeze. He flipped over the paper and winced. On the other side was a note from Dan, written very badly. It said "I'm not gone".

Phil pressed his lips together to try and keep the sadness from escaping. He must have written it weeks ago, when he'd promised to get a present for Louise but forgot. He probably meant "I've not gone," but wasn't paying much attention. It would make sense. The hand-writing was atrocious. He'd probably never meant for Phil to read it, as he'd clearly abandoned the note, and had ended up flat out confessing to it in person later on. But whatever the case, when Dan had written this, he couldn't possibly have known the circumstances under which Phil would find it. Phil had to swallow three times to keep from crying out aloud, and his free hand clenched the end of the sharpie tightly, covering his fingers in ink. It was too cruel to find this now. On today of all days.

He swiped his free hand over his eyes, forgetting for a second he was wearing glasses. Instead of removing any evidence of the moisture he'd felt gathering, he merely smeared his glasses and drew on his face with the sharpie. The fumes made him gag, and distracted him from his grief for a second. He huffed as he inspected his half black hand. Typical. Dan would not be surprised in the slightest at the mess he'd made of himself. With one last sniff, Phil folded the bill back up, shifted the sharpie so he was holding the right end, and went to put everything back on the bench.

As soon as he saw it, he stopped dead.

Written upside down, from the other side of the bench, were the words "I'm a ghost. - Dan." And underneath, there were whiskers. Phil's jaw dropped. There was a moment where all he could do was stare at the words in silence. But then that moment passed. He ran around the bench like someone had set him on fire, and read it again from the right side up.

It still read the same thing. In black sharpie, the words could not be clearer.

"I'm a ghost. - Dan." It was Dan's hand writing. It was written badly, but it was Dan's hand writing. Phil looked at the sharpie in his hand, and the phone bill he'd all but screwed up in his shock. "I'm not gone," it had said. "I'm a ghost," said the bench.

"No," Phil said, and the word stole his breath. He brought his up hands to cover his mouth to try and keep the hollowness from getting out. He could feel it pushing against the confines of his chest. The paper of the bill crumpled against his cheek, and he absently noticed he was drawing on himself again, but it hardly mattered.

"This can't be real," he squeaked out, shaking his head. Phil stared at the words through tear-clouded eyes. "It's a joke," he said to the room. "Isn't it?" He looked around behind him at the empty lounge room. Dan couldn't be a ghost. "I mean, not that I have anything against ghosts," he started to ramble, as he often did when he was nervous. "I'm sure they're brilliant." _But Dan can't be a ghost._ His mind supplied. _To be a ghost, he'd have to be...dead_. Phil felt a tear roll down his face as his eyes scanned the empty room. "If this is a prank, it's a really, _really_ bad one," his voice broke as despite himself, he started to hope. "A horrible, _horrible_ joke," he choked out.

And then the TV turned on by itself.

Phil jumped and let out a shriek as a talk show blared out into the silence. He was too spooked to tremble, and so he stood stock still, staring with wide eyes at the television.

"Dan?" he could barely voice the question, and yet, he was heard.

The TV changed channels. Phil dropped the sharpie.

"Phil?" he heard his mum come into the kitchen, and turned around to face her, tears still streaming down his cheeks.

"Mum?" his voice was still unsteady.

"What's going on, Child? I thought I heard – oh..." she paused as she caught sight of the bench. She looked at it, then up at his face, which was still stained with sharpie and tears, and finally down to his ink covered hand. "Oh Love," her voice was full of sympathy as she came to the wrong conclusion. "What's this about, then?"

"No," he denied. Phil shifted his glasses and finally wiped his face with his sleeve. The football continued to play on the television in the background. "I didn't write this."

She looked like she wanted to believe him, but he could see the doubt written all over her face.

"It's ok Love," she said gently. "You've had a rough time of it. It was a long night."

"No, Mum." Phil held his black hand up. "Look, I know what this looks like, but this wasn't me. I found it like this." He turned back to the lounge room. "And then the TV turned itself on, and it changed channel and everything."

"Phil," his mum admonished.

"Mum. Just hear me out," he cut her off, and thankfully she stayed quiet for a moment. He needed a minute to think about this by himself. But he wasn't going to get it. The best he could hope for was that she would suspend disbelief for the time it took him to try and prove it. And hopefully, she wouldn't think he was having a mental breakdown. Who knew. Perhaps he was. "Let me just try this, ok?"

He looked to his mum, and she nodded once, her expression neutral but her eyes worried.

"Dan?" he said to the lounge room, feeling apprehensive and a bit more silly now he had an audience. "Are you there?" Phil held his breath, but nothing changed. His eyes prickled again they misted over. He'd answer now, surely. "Hey, if you're there, could you do the thing with the TV again?" The football played on without pause. Phil waited a good twenty seconds but there was nothing. He could feel the 'please' pressing at his lips, but he wouldn't say it. Instead, he let it make tracks down his face and drip from his chin. His mum must have come in from the kitchen, but he never heard her, only felt warm arms pull him close. Sniffing, he buried his head into his mum's soft dressing gown.

"Once we've had some breakfast, we'll go and check in on him, hey?" she stroked his back as he nodded pitifully. His eyes never left the sharpie on the floor.

Ghosts were the spirits of dead people. That much, he could assume. Phil was sure he would have been contacted if anything had changed, and when he'd left last night, Dan was still on life support. So if Dan was a ghost, he had died while Phil was sleeping. Phil let out a shaky breath and clenched his ink-stained hand.

However, if Dan was still in a coma, then maybe Phil really was going crazy.

Phil closed his eyes against the tears, but he could still smell the sharpie. Either Dan was dead and a ghost, or he was going mad. In the face of this, his habitual optimism had gone into hiding. Either way, today was going to be a bad day.


	8. Chapter 8

Dan watched Phil as he _finally_ read the note he'd written on the bench. "I'm a ghost." So much more straight forward than: "I'm not gone." And yet, Phil barely reacted at all for a few seconds. His mouth opened a bit, and he seemed to space out, but there was no movie-style dramatics. After spending a good hour even getting the sharpie uncapped, he felt entitled to a bit more of a reaction than that.

Understandably, Phil had clearly justified the note on the phone bill as something else. But "I'm a ghost," in sharpie on the bench could hardly be misunderstood. And he'd signed it. And he'd drawn whiskers, because at that point, he'd actually started to get the hang of it, and why not? Also, writing as a ghost had yielded some unexpected benefits. His dominant left hand was ink-free, and he'd not smudged the writing once. That was pretty much a first. If he wasn't so bloody exhausted from the whole thing, he'd have almost felt like celebrating.

But then Phil had the reaction he'd been waiting for. He tore around the bench to the other side, to read the note again. Dan peered around his shoulder to watch.

He breathed a word that sounded like 'no', and brought his hands up to his face like he was going to try and stuff his fists in his mouth. He'd clearly forgotten he'd been holding the sharpie too, Dan noted with a dry smile. But when he saw the tears gathering at the corner of Phil's eyes, he wondered at the wisdom of his plan.

"This can't be real," Phil's hands were still clenched against his face. "It's a joke, isn't it?" Dan reached out to put a hand on his friend's shoulder, but stopped when he remembered. This wasn't right. He'd only wanted to let Phil know he was still here - to talk to him again and maybe bring him some comfort. Maybe exchange some banter to show him that it was going to be all right. But now, Phil looked like he was in physical pain. He'd never meant for this to happen.

"Phil," he said quietly. Even knowing his friend couldn't hear him, he needed to say the words. "I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. I'm sure this isn't news to you. But I couldn't just let you be sad and not try to cheer you up, you numpty."

Phil turned around as he spoke, and looked straight at him. For one fleeting second, he thought he'd actually made an audible sound. And then Phil kept speaking, and Dan's heart sank as he realised that Phil wasn't looking at him at all. He was looking through him at the wall.

"I mean, not that I have anything against ghosts," and there was Phil's random mind at it's best: terrified, yet still trying for a conversation, just in case the impossible was true. "I'm sure they're brilliant."

"Always the optimist," Dan replied fondly. A smile tugged at his lips, even as his heart ached. Phil was actively crying now. Standing right in front of him, Dan could almost have been his mirror.

Guilt and grief stabbed at him like twin knives. But he'd already written the message. There was no turning back now. If he didn't let Phil know he was still here, then he'd just caused his friend pain for no reason, and somehow, that was infinitely worse. All he could do now was press on.

He needed to confirm it for Phil, and a note wasn't enough. At least, not enough to break through the barrier that kept a hypothetical theory from becoming an undeniable reality. He needed to make Phil believe it, and for that, he needed proof.

His eyes scanned around the lounge room quickly, trying to find something easy to move. A pencil to roll back and forth or something. He didn't have the mental power left to pick anything up after spending the entire night and morning doing just that. Behind him, he could hear Phil gradually breaking down, and his heart squeezed painfully in his chest. At least, that's what it felt like. He was pretty sure ghosts didn't have hearts, but something in his chest was tugging and hurting.

"If this is a prank, it's a really, _really_ bad one. - A horrible, _horrible_ joke." Dan could hear his voice cracking now, and the pain in his chest intensified.

"Hold on, Phil," he muttered. "I'll find something." As he turned back around, he saw the television sitting innocently on the wall, and pumped his fists in victory. "Yes!" he hissed, and all but ran to the end of the lounge room.

Without hesitation, Dan reached through the TV until he felt the place where the energy buzzed the strongest, and squeezed. The TV blared loudly into life. He heard the scuffle of feet and a small girlish scream from Phil's direction. When he turned to look, Phil looked – well – like he'd seen a ghost. Dan held his breath. Surely this was proof enough for him? Phil had a creative mind. He didn't think it would take too much interference from him to overcome any doubts Phil might have. A few seconds later, Phil proved him right.

"Dan?" his voice was small, and hesitant, but Dan let out a whoop of joy. He carefully felt for the energy in the TV again, and passed a smaller knot of electricity. When he put his hand around it, the channel changed over to the football. He almost cheered as watched Phil and saw the penny drop, along with the sharpie.

Then two things happened at once. Kathryn appeared from the kitchen, calling Phil's name, and Patrick burst through the wall into the lounge.

"Daniel!" he looked like he'd been running. If ghosts could run. Dan grinned at the Irishman and pointed at the bench.

"I did it!" he crowed, but his celebration was cut off as Patrick snatched up his hand. It buzzed unpleasantly where they touched.

"No time for that," he snapped. "We have to leave."

Dan shook his head and tried to pull his hand away, but the blonde man just grabbed on tighter. It hurt almost as much as the pull in his chest, but he couldn't leave now. He'd just started to get through to Phil.

"But, Phil -"

" _Now!_ " Patrick cut him off, and brought his hand up to grab Dan around the side of the neck.

"What are you doing?" Dan tried to squirm out of it, but with a bit of pressure from Patrick, he was quickly being dragged into a side step. And between one step and another, his flat disappeared into darkness. And silence.

Dan looked around. At least, he thought he did. He couldn't feel his body. He couldn't tell if he was moving or not. Up, down, left, right – it all looked the same. Or maybe it didn't. He couldn't see. He couldn't feel anything, not Patrick's overly tight grip on his hand, or even the pain in his chest. He couldn't feel the air on his skin, and that more than anything terrified him. He couldn't even feel himself breathe. He didn't even know if he _was_ breathing. It was _complete_ sensory deprivation. Everything around him was an endless, timeless void.

His mind started to panic. All his existential nightmares were settling in to roost. Existence was meaningless when faced with this. Was this death? Was this what true death was? Consciousness in an eternity of nothingness? This was worse than anything he could have imagined. None of his existential crises had prepared him for this. The darkness, the unending void. It was pressing in on him. If he could feel his body, he was sure he'd be whimpering right now. But he couldn't hear, or feel anything. Inside his mind, he was beginning to scream, outside; nothing. Just black. He couldn't move. He was trapped.

He had no idea how long it was before the fear started to fade. But after some time, his mental anguish dulled a bit around the edges. The panic receded, and he could think clearly for a time. Patrick must have brought him here. So he must be coming to get him out again. Eventually.

Dan tried to keep his mind focussed on the time when the Irishman would come and retrieve him, but it wasn't long before the silence bore down on him again, and his mind was swept away into the darkness. And it was all consuming. It was all he could think about. The lack of stimuli was deafening. All the things he _couldn't feel_ were grating against his psyche. It was like his very core was thrashing about in a frenzy, trying to make up for the lack of sensations. Every cell was railing against the void, trying to fill it, and yet he could feel nothing. See nothing. He could scream at the top of his lungs and hear nothing. He couldn't even feel the pain of the screaming as it tore at his vocal chords. He couldn't feel his skin. _God help me. If you're real, help me._ Even the voice in his mind was frail. All his thoughts, no matter how desperate or vulgar, were flung outwards into the black abyss and were swallowed with no reply.

But in time, as it did before, the madness died away and he was lucid again. What was it that Patrick had said? _"We have to go"_? He'd sounded rattled. He'd sounded like he was running from something. He'd certainly been in a hurry to leave. And he'd been touching Dan when he'd been shoved into this...place. Logic told him that Patrick should probably be here with him.

 _'Patrick!'_ he called out, but there was no sound. Stupidly, he'd expected to hear himself shout, but there was only the desperate gratings of his mind, and emptiness. Before he could catch himself, he floated into terror again.

This time, it didn't seem to take as long to come back. - Or so it seemed. If time even had a place in this hell, there was nothing to measure it against, only the speed of his thoughts. But eventually he came to a place where his moments of lucidness seemed to contain more thoughts than his moments of shock. So he was either getting lucid for longer periods of time, or he was becoming so debilitated by fear with each episode that he couldn't follow his own thoughts.

Dan sighed silently, but the lack of sound didn't catch him out this time. If he was lucid long enough, he ran a very real risk of getting bored. An eternity of boredom interspersed with moments of abject terror. Two of his least favourite feelings in the world. Maybe this really was hell.

At first, he tried to meditate, but quieting his mind sent him almost immediately into a downwards spiral.

Next time, he playing his favourite songs in his head. He couldn't sing them, but he could remember them. That got him further than meditating at least, before the darkness took him.

The time after, he started to recite Winnie the Pooh books in his head, or at least, as much of it as he could remember. When he ran out of stories, he started to make new ones. Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day, became Winnie the Pooh and the Hundred Acre Rap Battle. And then: Winnie the Pooh and the Philosopher's Stone. He was just getting to the part where Winnie was sorted into Hufflepuff - _because where else would he be sorted_ , _seriously?_ \- when he felt a tug on his wrist, and he fell sideways into blinding light.

He screamed. It was loud.

"Shh!" came a hissing from his side. Dan pressed his lips together at the command, but only managed to change the scream into a muted whine. He pressed his eyes closed against the light, but he couldn't keep the air off his skin, or the sounds of electrical appliances out of his ears. Patrick's hand was like a brand against his wrist, and he tried to pull it back. He couldn't escape, but he did feel the grip loosen in sympathy.

"I know, lad," came a gentle Irish lilt. "I know, and I'm sorry." It took Dan a while to take in the words. He'd had no idea their flat was so loud before. London was clamouring against his skull. There were cars, distant sirens, the fridge turning on, the hum of electrical appliances, and the static sound of air. He'd had no idea that air had a sound, or a taste. Thankfully, someone had turned off the TV. He didn't think he could have coped with the football at the moment.

"I wouldn't have taken ye there if I didn't have to." His voice was soft and apologetic, but it still made him flinch.

Gradually, Dan acclimatised to the sensations, and opened his eyes a crack. The light was piercing, but he took it slowly, and before long he could see the lounge room in front of him. A few more seconds, and he realised he'd been rocking back and forth in the doorway. He stopped himself and pulled a face.

"Well," he said, and coughed as his throat protested. "That was..." Dan looked up at the Irishman's pointy face and frowned. "Actually, what the _fuck_ was that?"

Patrick released his wrist, and Dan rubbed it unconsciously. It still tingled in a weird, ghost-y kind of way.

"It was..." he paused and looked around. Dan thought he looked a bit paranoid. "I call it the Inbetween."

"Inbetween what?" Dan asked.

"Everything." Patrick's answer made him pause for a minute.

That was... Nope. He filed it away. Maybe he'd re-examine it later, but most likely, he'd treat it like an unwanted bit of paperwork and just drop it behind a couch in his mind. Just like the place, he never wanted to see it again. Instead, he settled for:

"Well it's fucking horrible."

"I know," Patrick grimaced. "I'm not even sure it's meant to exist."

"Yeah, I don't think existing is the word for it." Now Dan was starting to get his mind back, he was furious. Who the hell would take someone and abandon them in a place like that? And with no warning?

"Yer probably right about that," he confessed. "Sorry," he said, and he actually had the decency to look it. Dan knew he should probably let it go, but he wasn't quite ready to. Seriously. What teacher would leave their student that kind of in hell? - Except for maybe, his ex piano teacher. But that was besides the point. So he threw being forgiving out the window and just snapped.

"Yeah. You said that already."

"It was the only place I could hide ye at such short notice. I couldn't let them find ye." Patrick's hands were doing a mad little dance, fingers wringing together. Was he nervous?

Dan pursed his lips. Patrick was definitely hiding something.

"Who?"

Patrick averted his eyes.

"Who were you hiding me from?" Dan pushed.

"Administration," he finally answered, but the way he said it made him sound like he'd actually meant to say 'Russian spies' and had cocked it up. He couldn't help the disbelief that crept on to his face.

"Administration?" he asked dubiously, and by the way the man's pointy face tensed, Dan swore he was going to get shushed again. He didn't care. "You put me in a place that may or may not exist, where I could very _definitely_ gone mad, to save me from paperwork?"

Patrick was wearing a 'how could you be so dense' look, and Dan glared right back at him.

"Look," he said – mostly with his eyebrows. "Ye don't know everything, ok? Fact is, ye hardly know anything."

Dan scoffed. "Obviously. _You're_ supposed to be teaching me, not shoving me into little pockets of Nowhere whenever it suits you."

"Oh fer Christ's sake!" Patrick swore in what sounded like Gaelic. "Yer a right, smug, wordy bastard, aren't ye? Did ye never stop to think that maybe ye need to stop talking so much, and just listen? Ye might actually learn something."

Dan pouted and swallowed - partly because Patrick might be onto something, and partly because he couldn't think of a witty reply right now. Knowing his luck, it'd probably come to him later, when he didn't need it any more.

"Right," he muttered after a while, and Patrick's eyebrows crawled down from his hairline. "Go on then."

The Irishman looked warily around the room again - checking for 'spies' maybe.

"The _Administration_ ," he said it as quietly as possible without actually whispering. Dan fought the urge to roll his eyes. "- are who files the paperwork. Yer right about that in a sense. They keep the 'afterlife' running smoothly. It's their job."

"The _afterlife_?" Dan asked as innocently as he could. Patrick waved him off.

"I'm not going into that right now. There's a list of people who need to know about that, and yer not on it. Yet."

Dan blinked quizzically. What the hell did he mean by that?

"No. What ye really need to know _right_ now, is that it's the Administration that decides where souls are going to end up."

"So ghosts aren't..." Dan didn't quite know how to finish his question and awkwardly trailed off. "This isn't -"

"This isn't the 'afterlife'," Patrick clarified. "This is not where it all ends. It's more like a waiting room, if ye like. And the Administration don't like it when people in the waiting room talk to each other, let alone talk to people in the living world. They tend to let it skew their judgement when it comes to deciding where ye will end up."

"Where we end up," Dan repeated stupidly. The rabbit hole was getting deeper with every second. If he didn't know better, he'd say Patrick was a conspiracy theorist. But so far, he was the only ghost Dan had seen in a world he knew nothing about. He had no choice but to accept his answers at face value.

"Yes, where we end up." Patrick clarified. "The afterlife, or wherever they choose to put us."

Dan thought about it for a minute. If administration chose where he was going to end up, why the hell would anyone want to piss them off? Yet it seemed like Patrick was going out of his way to do exactly that. Maybe he _shouldn't_ be accepting his answers at face value.

"It's also their job to try and keep the worlds as separate as possible. To avoid confusion, or somewhat," Patrick continued and Dan saw an opportunity to do a bit of scoping out of his own.

"So they're basically like middle management grim reapers," Dan pretended to tap his lips in thought. He saw Patrick stifle a grin.

"I shouldn't laugh at that. They'll have me," he giggled.

"But what could they do to you that's worse than the Inbetween?" Dan pushed him gently.

Patrick looked uncomfortable. "Sorry again about that. But to answer yer question: I don't know. But I can't imagine the opposite of the Inbetween would be very pleasant – if it exists."

"Ah," was all he could say to that. "I think landing in a bag pipe concert after being in the void for a while would probably come close."

"Nothing wrong with bag pipes," he quipped. "But ye might be right about that," he conceded. "Maybe." Patrick shuddered a bit before he came back to himself. Dan could see him physically revert back into his teaching face, and he knew he wouldn't get any more out of him on the subject of the afterlife today.

"Anyways, what ye need to know before we get carried away with theology and such, is that every time we interact with the living world, we cause a ripple."

"And that's important?"

"The Administration can track it."

"So it's important."

"I wouldn't say it if it weren't important."

"Yesterday you said the word 'energy' in 27 different ways." Dan quirked an eyebrow. "10 times per sentence."

Patrick grinned and held up a triumphant finger. "But I never said aura, did I?"

"You did. A few times," Dan pointed out.

"In jest, only," he winked.

"Sure, sure. Justify it as much as you like. You still said it," Dan had almost worked himself up to a wry smile - which should have been a miracle after his time in the Inbetween.

"Anyway. There are ways to keep the ripples to a minimum, and it's mostly about control. Ye use only the exact amount of force ye need to do something, so there's no backlash. I should have told ye all this last night, but I honestly didn't think ye'd get as far as ye did. So, ah... Well done."

"Thanks." Dan couldn't help feeling a bit proud that he'd actually surpassed a teacher's expectations for once. But he still couldn't shake the disappointment of not getting through to Phil, or the nagging feeling that Patrick was keeping something important from him. "You know, when you came in, I almost had him convinced."

"Yeah, sorry about that. Ye caused some mighty big ripples with that sketch on the table there. I knew they'd be on to ye in a flash, and then it'd be all over anyway."

"Well, thanks." Dan thought back to the void and a chill went down his spine. "I think."

"Besides, ye've got a bit more to lose from the Administration than most," Patrick said a bit absently.

"I what?" Dan asked. Patrick looked a bit flustered, and Dan got the impression that he hadn't really meant to say that last bit aloud. Finally, a slip-up. But was he talking about Phil? He couldn't be, could he? Most ghosts would have at least one loved one they wouldn't want to leave behind. So what else did he have to lose? Patrick was avoiding his gaze again, his expression either guilty or thoughtful, or some mixture of the both.

"What do you mean?" Dan pressed him, and the blonde man swore.

"I wasn't going to tell ye this yet," he began.

"Tell me what?" Dan would get an answer out of him before the night was through.

"Yer not ready. There's a whole process to be followed yet," Patrick protested. But Dan was having none of it.

"I'm pretty sure a good teacher doesn't hold back information."

"Yer a bastard," Patrick sighed deeply. "I bet all yer teachers _loved_ ye."

Dan shrugged.

"Just saying."

Dan watched as the indecision made its home between his eyebrows. Finally, he met Dan's gaze. His eyes were weary with defeat.

"Fine," he said between his teeth. "Have it yer own way, as much good as it'll do ye."

Dan inclined his head, as if to say _'go on, continue_ '.

"Ye know that tightness ye've been feeling in yer chest?" he prompted. "Ye _have_ felt it, neh?"

Dan nodded slowly, his hand unconsciously rubbing the spot.

"Concentrate on it," Patrick urged. And Dan turned his full attention to it. It was a gentle pull that fluctuated in pressure, tugging in groups of two, like a drum beat. Like a heart beat. Dan twitched his gaze up to the Irishman's in shock.

"What is that? What does it mean?"

Patrick looked grim.

"It means ye aren't dead," the words were forced from reluctant lips. "Yet."

He felt the words hit him. Like stones thrown on an icy lake, they reverberated around his mind.

"I'm... Not dead?" he echoed the words, numb.

"No," he confirmed. "But yer not far off it."

"But why would you tell me this, unless there's a chance that -"

"There's a chance that you'll live," he interrupted. " _But_ ," he held up a finger in warning. "It's a slim one. Very slim. And it'd require a hell of a lot o' focus. And preparation. And practise. Not to mention a bit o' help from yer friend on the side of the living. _And_ ye have to do all of this without the Administration catching on, 'cause otherwise, we're both in the shit. And I have no idea what they'd do to us for even trying this."

Dan shook his head in amazement.

"But why would you do this for me? What's in it for you?"

Patrick's nose gave a twitch of satisfaction. "Yer a good lad. Why not?" Somehow, Dan didn't believe him.

"No," he said. "Really."

Patrick sighed and twitched his fingers through his blonde curls. His face was wry, but his voice was solemn. "Stay anywhere for long enough, and it starts to feel like the Inbetween."

"So basically, you're bored," Dan tried not to look offended. The Irishman either didn't notice, or didn't care. He just looked weary.

"I've been here a long time." Dan could hear the understatement in his voice, and wondered. Years? Decades? _Centuries?_

But none of that mattered now. What was important, was that he had a chance. He could live. Sure, there were a lot of 'ifs' and 'buts' and 'shit he hadn't thought of yet'. And there was a very real threat that he could be caught by the Administration and die anyway, but all that paled in comparison to the three words that kept swimming around his brain.

 _I could live._

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews, kind people! They really mean a lot. I think I'm back into the swing of it now, so I might be back in the saddle with some regular updates! - JinSol


	9. Chapter 9

Dislocated shoulder, fractured collar bone and ribs, punctured lung on the left side and maybe some hairline cracks in his neck. Dan's mum read off Dan's injuries like they were a grocery list. Phil was sure she must be feeling just as numb as he was, but she just threw the words out there carelessly, and they lodged themselves deep inside his chest, making it hard to breathe. _Possible brain injury and internal bruising._ Apparently, their monitors were showing very little brain activity, which was worrying the doctors.

Phil clenched and unclenched his hands, wishing there was something he could do. But Dan was unconscious, laying propped up in the bed with bruising and gravel rash covering one side of his face, and all Phil could do was stand there. Wires and tubing seemed to have sprouted from every surface of his body, and the monitors beeped slowly. It reminded him of playing Zelda. The ominous beep of low health, seconds away from game over. Phil reined in on that thought before it could get away from him. Dan was not dead. He followed the lines on the display as they tracked up and down. Dan's heart-beat. Proof that his friend was alive. Proof that Dan was most definitely _not_ a ghost, and proof that he was, quite possibly, having some kind of psychotic break.

Even though Dan had multiple existential crises per season, he had always joked that Phil was the cracked one. Phil was beginning to think he was right.

"Do you think…do you know if he can hear us?" Phil said it before he even realised he was speaking.

Dan's mum blinked slowly at him, her face still mask-like. She paused for a bit before replying in a tight, high voice. "The doctors couldn't tell me that. There's been no change on those things," she pointed at the cluster of monitors against the wall "-since we got here. So possibly not."

Phil's mum gave his shoulder a squeeze before turning to the other woman.

"Would you like to come down to the cafeteria with me for a cup of tea? You must be due one by now, I think," she said in a voice that Phil knew well. It was the: 'compassionate-mother-who-brooks-no-argument' tone. He'd heard it a lot when he was a teenager. Mostly when he was having a sulk.

Dan's mum pursed her lips and after a small hesitation, she nodded a tiny nod.

"I wouldn't mind a coffee," she agreed, and this time her shoulders relaxed a bit as she breathed out. Kathryn's answering smile was warm as she gently guided the way out into the corridor. She looked back at Phil from just outside the door.

"Would you like to come down with us, Luv?" This time she used her regular voice, and her eyes flicked over to Dan's hospital bed.

"I think I'll stay for a bit, Mum," he replied, and her smile was both tender and a bit victorious. He knew for sure, then. She'd just subtly arranged for him to have some time alone with Dan to sort through some feelings. She was a crafty mother, but she was a brilliant one. He shot her a small, grateful smile.

"We'll just be in the canteen if you need us," she said, and winked at him before disappearing with Dan's mum down the brightly lit, hospital corridor.

Phil watched after her for a few seconds before turning back to his friend. With wires poking out left right and centre, and monitors and clear bags hanging either side of his bed, he looked like a cyborg. A cyborg in a hospital gown with Zelda-esque ominous background noises.

Dan would have hated it. The gown would have been humiliating, the wires would have been in the way, and the beeping would have driven him mental. At least he wasn't awake to see it.

Phil took a few steps forward until he stood at the foot of the bed, awkwardly avoiding the sheets, just in case he contaminated them, somehow.

What the hell was he supposed to do now? The only things he knew about hospital etiquette were from TV dramas and anime, and most of them were probably wrong.

"Hi Dan," he said, for lack of anything else to say. "It's me, Phil."

' _It's ya boi, Dan'_ his mind bombarded him with a hundred of Dan's video introductions in the silence that followed, but the only thing that replied was steady beeping of the hospital monitors. Dan's heart.

"So, I don't know if you can hear me," he started hesitantly. "But you're in the hospital. At least, I think you are. I mean, well, your body's in the hospital, but I had this weird thing happen at the flat, and I thought it might be you."

Dan was silent, except for the slow beeping and whirring of the machines.

"I guess not, though. Except, maybe, our TV might be possessed." Dan had no reply for him, and so Phil continued. "Thought you might like that. I mean, if it _were_ you, you'd have found some way to answer me, and I don't think you would have turned on the football either, so maybe it was something else. And, well, you're alive, so you're clearly not a ghost, and not writing things on benches. So, if we go by Sherlock's law: you rule out the impossible, and whatever's left, however improbable must be the truth. I think that means we have a possessed TV."

He was rambling now, but he couldn't quite bring himself to stop. The only difference between his normal rambling conversations with Dan, and this one, was the lack of a sassy reply. Dan was all about the sassy replies. It was hard for a heart monitor to beep sassily, but he was certain that if anyone could manage the task, it would be Dan. Phil huffed and pressed his lips together.

"Oh, and I'm sleepwalking. Or sleep-writing. Or both. Either way, I might be going mad, so that's today's news, anyway."

Dan lay motionless, and the steady rise and fall of the lines on the screen remained constant and unchanging. In a strange way, it felt like he was talking to Dan's heart. But either it was ignoring him, or it couldn't hear him.

He hoped it was the former. He'd rather Dan ignore him out of anger than be beyond his reach for good. This was, after all, his fault. If he hadn't forgotten the flour, or if he'd offered to go and get it when his mistake was realised, or if any one thing had been different that day, then maybe they'd be editing videos and eating left over pancakes right now.

"I'm sorry, Dan," he didn't even try to stop himself from saying it, even though the words tore at his throat on their way out. He swallowed around the lump they formed and blinked back the tears he could feel gathering in his eyes. "I'm an idiot. You know I'm an idiot." He took another step toward the head of the bed and reached out for his friend's hand - the one that wasn't covered in tubes and tape.

"Maybe if I wasn't such an idiot, you wouldn't be in here," he said, and grasped his friend's slack fingers.

The machine beeped twice in quick succession before continuing normally. Phil snapped his gaze around to the monitor and watched the lines. Two spikes closer together than the rest disappeared quickly off the end of the screen.

A sassy heartbeat?

"Dan?" he squeezed his friend's fingers again. The monitor continued to beep normally.

An anomaly. It was just an anomaly.

He placed Dan's hand back on the bed carefully and took a seat in the visitor's chair. It seemed to him that the gap between the next two beeps was longer, but then again, he was probably going mental, too. So he just sat and watched his friend breathe, because assisted or not, it meant he was alive. Whatever else was happening at the moment, Dan was alive, and breathing, and right next to him, where he belonged.

….

A/N: Many apologies for the unacceptable delay, and thank you to hermioneg393 for the motivation! I am cautiously optimistic towards finishing this thing, not to mention, bloody excited to see the fabulous duo themselves in August!


	10. Chapter 10

"So you're saying I need to practise my control?" Dan was tired just thinking about it, but Patrick was pacing the length of the loungeroom with a spring in his step. It was like metaphysical espionage was his version of a double shot espresso.

"Yes," he said shortly. "Yer goin' to need to focus on only using as much energy as ye need to when interact with the physical world. An' if ye can, try not to do it in one place only. That's a sure way to draw their attention."

"Yeah…" Dan drew the word out on a breath. "And how long is that going to take, exactly?"

The Irishman was still pacing, his hair bobbing madly with each step. "Oh, not long at all, in the grand scheme of things," he replied.

 _In the grand scheme of things?_ Dan was not at all comforted by that statement, especially coming from the mouth of someone who had potentially been floating around getting bored, for decades. But it seemed he had more to say on the matter.

"I'd say one…maybe two–"

"Days?" Dan interjected at the same time as Patrick said "Years." There was a small pause where the pacing stopped, and Patrick looked at him with what could only be described as an apologetic grimace.

"Two _years_?" He couldn't believe it. He pulled his hair in frustration. "You literally just told me that I'm only alive by a technicality, and you think that my barely-alive body will be _fine_ if we leave it to simmer for _two years_ , while I'm sat here learning how write 'softer'?"

Patrick's lips twitched down at the corners. "I'm seeing a problem here," he stated mildly.

"Oh, you think?" Dan wanted to wrap his hands around the ghost's skinny neck and shake. The only thing that held him back was the memory of the feeling Patrick's hand around his wrist just before he was introduced to the Inbetween. He hated the feeling of ghost-on-ghost touching. Nowhere near as much as the feeling of being stuck in that soulless void, but somewhat more than he hated moths.

"Alrigh'," Patrick held his hands up in supplication. "No need to jump down me throat, eh?"

Dan huffed, and crossed his arms, despite himself. "So what are we going to do then? If I keep trying to contact Phil, I'll bring the 'Administration' down on us," he made sure to say it in inverted commas, simply because it sounded too ridiculous to be legitimately afraid of a glorified secretary, angelic or not. "But if I don't try to contact Phil, I'll probably die anyway." He raised his eyebrows and gave a tense 'not-smile', because he was still annoyed, and he was damned if he wasn't going to let that Irish bastard know about it.

Patrick was half nodding, his gaze fixed on nothing.

"So, what's the plan then?" Dan pressed.

The ghost looked up from beneath his blonde curls and said "hmm?" like he hadn't even been listening.

 _'Don't scream swear words. Don't scream swear words,'_ he chanted in his head, clenching his teeth so hard they might have cracked – if he's been a person and not a ghost.

"What. Is. The. Plan?" he asked again - at a very reasonable volume.

Patrick sucked air in through his teeth and clicked his tongue. Dan was sure he'd be stroking a beard if he'd had one. "It's a tricky one, that's for sure," he said finally.

Dan pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed out very slowly. "That's not an answer."

"No," he agreed. "But it's a statement o' fact."

Dan was about to break his 'no scream-swearing' rule when he felt a sharp tug from his chest. It pulled all the air out of his lungs. Or at least, that's what it felt like. He let out a pained 'oh', and Patrick's eyes suddenly narrowed in his direction as he grasped his pastel shirt, right over his heart.

"Ye ok?" his voice was concerned, but his expression was focussed, like he was trying to solve a particularly difficult riddle.

Dan gradually relaxed as the sharp pain dissipated. The soreness was still there, like it always was, but it no longer felt like someone was trying to pull his heart out through his chest. He rubbed the spot over his heart before awkwardly dropping his hand down and shoving it in his pocket. He'd definitely overreacted.

"Yeah," he replied, but it sounded unconvincing, even to him. "Just a bit of a twinge."

The Irishman hummed in response, but Dan could see his mind ticking over. "Ye sure?" he pushed.

"Yeah, it's gone now."

Patrick shrugged, and the calculating look left his face. "Probably just something happening to yer physical body then," he surmised. "If it happens more than once in a row, it's usually the paddles, but just once…" he shrugged again. "Probably just a glitch. It were too weak to be the Administration interfering."

"Wait, paddles?"

Patrick mimed holding something in both hands and moved them out in front of him before yelling "clear!". He jolted his body as if it had been shocked, and then looked back at Dan, with a grin. "Paddles," he said again. "Can never remember what the bloody things are called."

"Ah," Dan nodded. He couldn't remember what they were called either, but Patrick didn't need to know that.

"The things they start your heart with in movies."

"Yep," Dan said, and Patrick looked pleased with himself. "But it wasn't them, though, was it?"

"No, it wasn't them."

"So, what was it?" Dan frowned. This whole experience was fraught with enough danger without adding more unexplainable bullshit to the pile.

"Don't know," the ghost replied. "But if yer physical body's giving ye signals, it's probably a good sign that we need to move quickly. Yer right. Two years is going to be out of the question."

"So, what do we do then?" Dan was starting to worry. He was literally fighting for his life here, and his only guide was looking less and less competent by the second.

Patrick was silent for a few seconds more while he absently rolled a pen back and forth along the table. Dan tried not to be jealous and failed. He went over to sit in his sofa crease, so he didn't have to watch the great Irish git effortlessly doing something that would take him years to perfect. Apparently.

 _Show-off._

Al length, he replied. "Seems to me, that ye need a way to communicate with yer friend that doesn't take long to learn – or, at least, one that doesn't cause too many ripples."

Dan narrowly avoided saying _'stating the fucking obvious much?'_ , and instead, asked: "So, we definitely need Phil for this?"

"Yes." The answer was immediate, and definite. It almost restored Dan's faith in Patrick's expertise. "Ye need an anchor from the other side, other than yer living body. If ye were able to get back into yer body without help, ye'd already be there. The cord usually pulls ye back if ye happen to drift out accidentally – like in dreams, or in meditation, or the like. Think of it a bit like elastic. When yer ejected violently, the cord stretches too far, and it tends to go a bit –" he mimed stretching something with his arms, and then let them fall to his side like he was tired. "-slack. It can't quite go back to its original shape."

"And Phil will help with that, somehow?" Dan tried his hardest to keep the doubt from his voice. He failed, yet again. This was becoming a habit. Patrick gave him a wry smirk. His doubt had been noted and was apparently now being mocked. Nothing new there.

"Like I said," he continued. "Ye'll need an anchor from the other side." Patrick jerked his head in the direction of the poster hanging in the corridor. "Yer clearly _very_ good friends." Dan met Patrick's suggestive eyebrow waggle with an irritated glare. "Patrick grinned happily. "And whatever else that means – no judgement here-," he gave an innuendo-laden wink, "-it means that on an energetic level, he'll be reaching out for you, and ye'll be reaching out for him. Human beings who are as close as you two are, tend to leave an energetic imprint on each other. And unlike _your_ saggy cord; yer friend's should be nice and new and springy, and that's partially what's going to get back into yer body."

"So, in a way, having a best friend is like having a back-up parachute?"

Patrick snorted. "More like a back-up bungee cord, but the other end's attached to yer friend. I like the analogy though. I might steal that."

Dan pictured the scenario. Bungee-jumping with Phil holding the other end of the rope. He shuddered and pressed himself more firmly into the sofa crease for comfort. He'd absolutely be face-planting into a canyon with Phil's coordination skills. But at least this was a cord that Phil couldn't let go of.

That thought gave him pause. If and actual bungee cord was tied around Phil, they'd both end up in the canyon together. Both dead. Dan frowned, and looked at the ghost, who was pulling at his ear thoughtfully.

"Could this hurt Phil?"

"Hmm?" he jerked out of his contemplation. "Oh, well yes." He caught Dan's horrified gaze and amended his statement. "Well, technically yes. There's always a risk when yer dealing with energy, and life and death, and such things, but _mostly_ it's fine."

Dan's mouth went dry. " _Mostly_ fine?" he felt sick. All this time he'd been imagining a grand come-back - the great escape from death - and he'd never realised that his plans might come at the expense of Phil. He was suddenly reminded of the ancient folk-tales of people making deals with the fairy-folk. He should have known that there was a catch. There was always a catch. What kind of idiot was he?

"What kind of risk is there?" he asked, before he got carried away. Patrick shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, if it's done hastily, or too violently, there's a chance he'd end up here with you - with a flabby cord and all – instead of the other way around. _But_ ," he held up a finger. "That's only if ye go into it without any preparation. The key is in the preparation. It's another reason why I recommend learning to use yer energy properly, and in the right proportions."

"And how many times have you done this?" Dan asked, still shaken. " _Successfully._ "

"Why? Is there another ghost out there waiting to help ye get back to yer body? Is there another, more qualified applicant waiting in the wings? If so, bring him in."

Dan immediately regretted asking. Patrick waited for his answer with his arms crossed, clearly unimpressed, but not pissed off. Yet. Time for a softer touch then.

"You know I haven't. I _am_ very grateful for the help you're giving me, but when it comes down to it, if getting me back to my body is going to put Phil in danger, then I don't want to do it." He felt the void open up underneath his feet on saying the words, but he wouldn't take them back. As much as he joked online that he'd choose his life over Phil's, _he_ was the one dying. He would not take Phil down with him.

Meanwhile, he saw Patrick roll his eyes. "Steady on, Lad," the ghost sighed. "If I wanted someone to kiss me arse I'd not have introduced myself to _you_. There's a cabinet minister or two that would do the job admirably. But _you've_ got spunk. That means ye'll succeed where others have failed."

Dan resisted the urge to comment on the word 'spunk', even though his innuendo counter automatically registered it.

"And exactly how likely is it that I'll succeed?"

"At the moment? Not very." Dan almost deflated, before he saw the twinkle in Patrick's eyes. "But if we can get ye some training in with yer pal, I think ye've got a chance. And if we can get ye talking to each other, then, in theory, we can make a safety net so yer friend won't get pulled out of his body."

"Aaand we're back to square one," Dan's rising excitement quickly descended into a kind of exhausted despair. "I still need to find a way of talking to Phil that can't be detected by the Administration."

"Right," Patrick concluded.

"Any ideas?"

The ghost chewed the side of his cheek. "Not really."

 _'Well that's helpful,'_ Dan muttered under his breath. "So, it's just the ripples that they can detect, right?" he asked a little louder.

"That's right," he replied. "And a rough point of origin. Oh, and they can sense ghosts - the dead ones - that is."

"But not me?" Dan clarified.

"Well, they can sense ye, but they don't care. Yer what they call a sleep-walker. A living ghost. Yer still attached, so yer not in their jurisdiction. Ye'll only get their attention if ye make waves, otherwise they'll just wait until ye either make yer way back to yer body - like most dreamers do - or they wait until ye die."

"What happens if you make too many waves?"

"They either push ye back into yer body and erase yer memory of it- that's if yer only a sleeper. If yer close enough to death, they just sever yer cord and take ye for processing."

Dan let out a long breath. "So, it's all or nothing, then."

Patrick's curly hair bobbed as he nodded. "All or nothing."

Dan's chest clenched painfully again, and it felt like his heart skipped a beat. It wasn't as bad as last time, but it still made him wince and curl in around himself.

"Yer chest again?" he heard Patrick ask.

"Yeah."

"Just once?"

"Yeah, not the…paddles," Dan replied. He wished he could google that bloody word. If being lectured to by an Irish ghost with a spy complex didn't drive him mad, being stuck without internet would. At least he could watch TV.

Dan's mind suddenly latched onto an idea.

"Hey Patrick," he queried. The ghost inclined his head to show he was listening. "Does turning on the TV cause ripples?"

Patrick appeared to think on it for a second. "It shouldn't. We're just using our natural state to short out a circuit, so we're not creating a force that wasn't already there."

Dan felt the first stirrings of hope fluttering in his chest. A little breathlessly, he turned to look the ghost dead in the eye.

"What about a computer?"

A slow smile lit up Patrick's face and his eyes sparkled triumphantly.

"How fast can ye type?" he grinned, and Dan joined him. If he could hit the electrical components of the letters on the keyboard, at the correct depth, in theory, he could simulate typing.

At last, he had the beginnings of a plan. He could finally talk to Phil, work on controlling his energy, go through with whatever insane steps Patrick had devised next, and then, maybe, _just maybe,_ get his life back. It was a big risk, but it was a start, and try as he might, he couldn't keep his elation under wraps.

Dan peeled himself out of the sofa crease and loosened his shoulderblades.

"Words are cheap," he replied with a smirk. "Let me give you a demonstration."


	11. Chapter 11

Phil had stayed at the hospital until the nurses had started bringing around the dinner trays. None for Dan, of course. Dinner trays were only for conscious people. But someone came around and changed over his IV bag, and he'd looked away as they changed over his catheter bag, partially out of modesty and partially out of embarrassment. Dan would be mortified. Or wrathful. Or some mixture of the two.

The surgeon had come around to check on his progress and had stayed to answer some questions. Phil understood very little of what was exchanged during those times. The medical terminology was dense, and the parts he _did_ manage to grasp were so foreign they may as well have been fictional, like something from House, or Grey's Anatomy. All the terms and injuries the surgeon was describing, they couldn't possibly be borne by one body, let alone his best friend. That, and the surgeon was wearing pineapple socks, so by the time he'd gotten over the surprise of seeing fruity socks on a surgeon, the conversation was too deep to follow.

Through all this, Dan's face was peaceful. It was half covered with an oxygen mask, and the other half was covered with bruises and gravel rash, but his expression was relaxed, and his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm despite the tube poking out the side. He seemed to be blissfully unaware of the poking and prodding of the nurses, and the hushed conversations and the din of the trolleys rattling past. Once again, that was probably for the best.

Time moved strangely as he sat at Dan's bedside. Sometimes the minutes seemed to crawl forward with exhaustive effort, and at other times, whole hours sneaked past while he wasn't watching.

For the most part, it was just Phil sitting around being awkwardly silent, trying not to give in to the urge to play animal crossing on his phone, and his mum talking to Dan's mum in reassuring tones. She had relaxed a bit since he'd first arrived. Her expression, which had been as brittle as glass when they'd arrived, had softened to show a complex knot of emotions. Grief, anger, sorrow and fatigue. But the two that seemed to creep through her guard most often, were worry, and fleeting moments of anguished hope.

Phil finally gave in to the temptation to check his phone and made the mistake of looking at his twitter feed, and was immediately assaulted by a storm of anxious dm's and messages from friends and fans alike.

"What was that, Love?" his mum turned to look at him, and he realised he must have groaned aloud.

"Nothing Mum," he replied automatically. "Well, not nothing," he amended.

There were rumours flying around on the internet already. Somebody thought they saw someone who looked like Dan in the Royal, one other person was on the street where it happened and thought they heard his name, and apparently Phil had been seen going into the hospital later on, looking anxious.

There was nothing concrete. No pictures. No tweets from either of them. Just radio silence, and rumours. And naturally, it was taking off like a rocket.

Dan's mum was looking expectantly at him now. Phil sighed.

"Dan's subscribers might have caught wind that he's in hospital," he said, and her face grew rigid again.

"It's none of their business," she snapped.

Phil pressed his lips together and flicked his eyes up to Dan. This could get out of hand very quickly. Honestly, he could understand her reaction, especially after the whole thing with Dan's brother, but in this case...

"I don't think ignoring it's not going to make it go away," he spoke as gently as he could, but he still felt like he was kicking a puppy. "We've learned this from past experience. And besides, we already teased the release date of the video we were going to make, so when that doesn't come out -" Phil grimaced and shrugged. "I don't want to do this any more than you do, honestly. But they're like bloodhounds when it comes to sniffing out information."

That sounded wrong.

"Well, not like bloodhounds, more like detectives – a whole network of Poirots and Sherlocks, Morses, all detecting stuff together," he stumbled, watching her expression darken. He stopped rambling, and quickly decided that describing the best crossover that never happened wasn't going to win him any points. Time to switch tactics.

"The point is, they already suspect something's wrong, and when we don't release the video, they'll figure it out anyway, and then it'll be too late. We'll be swamped by a tidal wave of well wishers and worried phans."

He'd have to type up something official, at least an appeal for space while they sorted everything out. He'd have to address it before the date they teased for the cooking video, otherwise the rumour mill would go nuclear. Of course, addressing it directly would probably garner the same reaction, but at least then, they'd have some control over it. But from underneath his quiff, he could see Dan's mum getting frostier by the second.

"Look, Dan's shared a big part of his life with them. He's helped a lot of people, and they care about him," he started, expecting to be turned into an ice pillar at any second.

"They don't know him," her voice was tight as she cut him off. "Not really. Not like we do. Not like his family."

There was silence for a few tense seconds, punctuated by awkwardly loud breathing. Phil found himself nodding. Neither of them shared every part of their lives with the internet, because no one wanted to see a live-stream of Dan shoved in a sofa crease for hours on end eating chips directly from the bowl with his face, and likewise, no one wanted to see Phil making his 18th coffee of the day, or struggling to put in his contacts. But there were things you just didn't share with your family either. Phil was about as close to Dan as a person can get, but still -

"I'm not family, either," he said into the quiet. He knew she would argue that normally, but he could see the exhaustion pulling her shoulders forward in defeat. "But if someone I cared about was in trouble, I'd want to know if they were going to be ok. I'd worry." Kathryn gave him a small nod of encouragement, and he shot her a grateful smile.

"But I think I'd worry more if no one would tell me anything."

"The imagination of a worried person is a scary thing," his mum said sagely.

Phil clenched his hand reflexively around his phone – a portal to the thousands or people out there worrying about his best friend alongside him.

"And the imagination of a million worried people is terrifying."

In the end, they managed to convince her to leave for the night so she could rest, and Phil and his mum followed her, weary but cautiously optimistic about Dan's recovery. Well, at least _he_ was. He had to be. The other alternative was too heavy for him to bear thinking about.

Kathryn had insisted on picking something up for dinner, rather than ordering in. For obvious reasons, neither of them felt like cooking. She'd shooed him back into the flat before setting off down the street again, making him feel both guilty and grateful.

Phil had almost decided to ignore the kitchen bench in favour of the computer, but the thought of writing that horrible, heart-rending official statement made him feel like procrastinating. And there was something else tugging at the strings in his mind.

He knew his mum would try and clean the writing off the bench when she got home, to protect him from facing his own vulnerabilities. Or to keep him from going mental. _More_ mental, that is. He also knew that it would take a bit of muscle work to get it completely clean. Sharpie doesn't come off easily. His fingers were testament to that. Either way, he knew he wanted another look at it before it was gone.

The kitchen was exactly how they left it. The bill with the scribbled note on the bottom sill sat on the corner of the bench, as did the uncapped sharpie, and upside-down, the message on the bench was still clear as day. _"I'm a ghost, - Dan."_ And, of course, the PINOF whiskers.

Phil looked at the ink still caught in the creases of his fingernails. Did he really do this? Could he really have done this in his sleep? We wandered around to the other side of the bench to view the writing the right way up.

The letters were crooked and crudely drawn, as if it had been written by a kindergarten student with a pen shoved in their fist. But the spelling was correct. And none of the letters ran into each other. If he'd been writing in his sleep with his eyes closed, chances were, he'd have overlapped some writing. The slant to the letters was odd, too. It looked like a left-handed slant. Without the smudging. But the ink was on his right hand only. And on his face, but that was besides the point.

Phil's nose crinkled as he tilted his head, puzzled. Something was off about this.

"Time for an experiment, then," he declared to the silence of the kitchen, wiggling his fingers. In a flurry of movement, he sifted through the mail on the bench until he found a blank envelope. Then, with the sharpie, he tried to recreate the writing.

It took a few goes to get it writing properly, after having been uncapped for so long. He tried with his right hand first. The slant was difficult to get right, bending his wrist at an unnatural angle, and the shape of his letters was all wrong.

Next he tried his right hand, with his eyes closed. When he opened his eyes, the letters were still the same shape as before, just jumbled together where he'd had to take the pen from the page to switch lines. As he'd thought.

Next he tried his left hand. It took a while to fumble a proper grip on the sharpie, and the writing was awkward going. It felt like he was writing backwards in the wrong direction. When it was done, the angle was more or less right, and the level of writing _did_ look like it had been written by a toddler, but they were the only boxes it checked. The letters were still the wrong shape, and the writing style was completely different.

Finally he tried with his left hand, and his eyes closed. It felt like trying to rub his tummy and pat his head. Nearly impossible. The finished result looked like a dog's breakfast, and his left hand was smeared with ink along the side where it had dragged across the paper. He hadn't had any ink smeared on his left hand when he'd woken up.

Phil compared the four samples to the writing on the bench and frowned. None of them even came close.

"I didn't write this," he mumbled to himself. He looked around at the empty flat suspiciously. It was eerily quiet, but he had the strangest feeling that he was not alone. He told himself that he wasn't scared, but in truth, he was almost hyperventilating.

"I didn't write this, did I?" he asked the flat, his voice wavering, but loud.

Something hit the floor behind him, and he jumped out of his skin with a little ' _gya_ ' of fright. It was the sharpie. It must have rolled off the bench after he'd put it down. He let out a huff of air that turned into a relieved chuckle. Maybe he really was going mad. He bent down and picked up the sharpie again, sitting it next to his note.

He still had no explanation for the writing. It was not his. He was almost sure of it.

A rattle came from the bench, and he jerked his head up abruptly. The sharpie was rolling along the laminate towards the kettle. He hadn't pushed it.

"Oh my god," he yelped, and all the air left his chest like he'd been punched in the gut. The sharpie ignored him and kept rolling merrily across the bench. By itself. He was definitely hyperventilating now. And...were his hands actually shaking?

The sharpie came to a stop against the side of the kettle. Phil stood, slack-jawed as the kettle started to boil, with the switch in the 'off' position.

He felt goosebumps prickle the skin on his neck and the hair stood up on his arms. This wasn't the TV. This wasn't his mind playing tricks on him. This was the kettle boiling all by itself. He wasn't sure whether to scream or jump up and down in wonder. So he swore. A long string of expletives mixed with a nonsensical array of dog names, royal family members, and royal family dog names. Something that would definitely not have made it onto the Amazing Phil channel, anyway.

The kettle stopped, and he pressed his lips together. It took all of two seconds to decide whether or not to risk looking like an idiot and speak to a kettle.

"Ok. So don't do anything scary, or kill me, or anything." He took a deep breath. "But is there someone there who wants to...umm...speak to me?"

There was quiet in the flat for a second as he held his breath, waiting for the horror movie jump-scare moment. The sharpie stayed where it was. The kettle stayed the same temperature. However, in the background, Phil started to hear the a beeping, increasing in volume with every beep. It sounded familiar, but he couldn't immediately place it.

Then, a familiar voice wafted down the hallway.

"Hello internet!" it said, and there was a pause. "It's me, ya boi. It's three am, the witching hour of the internet spooks, and here we are, yet again..." there was a longer pause. "Fucking it up, apparently."

Phil's heart was almost beating out of his chest. It was Dan. Dan's voice was coming from the bedroom.

"Let's try that _again_ ," the voice continued. "Because what's three am for, if not pacing a hole in the floor and repeating the same words ad infinitum, until you die?"

Phil found his feet moving towards the corridor of their own accord, and the voice got louder as he got closer.

"Well, pacing, and internet porn. Because let's be honest, at least 70% of you probably have an internet history that would make your grandma roll over in her grave. And the other 30%...well...are you even human? Just saying."

There was a muffled snort of a laugh as Phil got into the corridor. "Yeah, I probably shouldn't say that. DELETE!"

Phil followed the sound, his stomach churning, partially with elation, and partially with fear, because Dan couldn't possibly be here. He'd just left him in the hospital, where he'd been attached to the wall with so many tubes he'd have needed Dab with a machete to cut him free. And yet, a part of him hoped...

"Anyway, that's not what I'm here to say. Today's video, and maybe I should warn you - this is a Wholesome Howell announcement, so get ready for it: Today's video, is about love. Yes, that funny little feeling you get in the pit of your stomach - and I'm not talking about that cheeky Nando's feeling that we've all experienced at one point in your life – don't even try to deny it, Kathy, I'm looking at you. No, the feeling I'm talking about, is love."

"Also, it would be very awkward right now if none of you are called Kathy. Probably delete that too..."

Phil stepped into Dan's room, his eyes immediately drawn to the source of the sound. Dan's laptop.

"Also, I'm not Nando's shaming anyone, because like love; haven't we all been there at some point or another?"

Dan smirked from out of the laptop screen as the video paused itself. It was a recording. One he hadn't seen before. Probably the one he'd copied over the day before. The beeping was the volume being turned up.

"Ok, I might be getting a bit off topic," Phil jumped, as the video un-paused. "So why am I talking about love at three in the morning, you might ask? Am I possessed? Am I re-branding? Have I eaten too much chocolate and now can't get to sleep? Could it be all three?" Dan grinned. "Well, it could."

The video paused itself again, and Phil saw the progress bar drag backwards on the screen. Then the video played again.

"...well...are you even human? Jus-" the video paused again, and the progress bar dragged forward. Phil stood with one hand covering his mouth, preventing a scared-puppy whine from escaping.

The video played again. "-ing you might ask. Am I possessed?" it played, and then paused.

"Dan?" Phil's eyes were wide and wet as he addressed the empty room.

The progress bar dragged backwards once more, to the very beginning of the video, and played. "It's me, ya boi-"

The video stopped, and Phil breathed hard into his hands as he tried his best not to sob. "Oh my god," he whispered. On the screen, the video minimised and the Pages app popped up on the screen.

On the top of the page, words began to appear, letter by letter, as if someone was typing. Phil forced himself to take the three steps towards the piano, where Dan's laptop was sitting on the corner. The air was freezing cold as he leaned forward to read the message.

 _No, just me. Daniel 'I'm-a-ghost-but-somehow-not-dead' Howell._

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god-" Phil shook his hands out like he was trying to dislodge the fear that had suddenly electrified his body. It didn't work, and he groaned into his clenched fists.

 _Sorry sorry sprry. Don't freak out. It's just me._

Phil watched from above his clenched fists as the cursor then moved backwards to delete the 'p' in 'sorry' and replace it with an 'o'.

It was Dan. If nothing else proved it, that did.

"Dan?" he asked, a little timidly.

 _Yes._

"Dan?" he asked a little louder.

 _Yep er rooney -_ The line of writing immediately deleted itself to be replaced with: _Still yes. Never let me write that sentence again._

Phil giggled, at first nervously, but then it overcame him and he collapsed onto the piano stool in relieved laughter. This was definitely Dan. Talking to him on a laptop. As a ghost. This was ridiculous. "Oh my god," he said again, for good measure.

 _They've not elevated me to godhood yet. But give it time._

"Holy fuck," Phil swore as the words typed themselves out.

 _Not had one of those yet, either._ The sentence appeared on the screen, and set him off laughing again. He could feel the tears streaming down his face, but at this point, he didn't care.

"You're a ghost!" Phil exclaimed.

 _I'm a ghost._ Dan confirmed. _Or something like it._

"This is insane!" he barked out as he laugh-cried into his hands.

Phil let the giddiness run through him like a balm, soothing the tension he hadn't know he'd been holding. When he finally finished laughing, he went to slump backwards into his chair and almost fell off the back of piano stool. One day he'd remember that not every chair with a computer in front of it was a computer chair. When he righted himself, the screen read:

 _Ffs, Phil. Sit on the floor._

"Bossy," he remarked, still shaking his head in disbelief. Then after a pause. "So I'm not going crazy then?"

 _Hah. 'Going'._

"Hey! Shut it, Howell," he replied in mock-offense. This really was absolutely insane.

 _But, no. You're not going crazy. Me? Possibly. You? You're just along for the ride, mate. - Wow. Not sure I've ever typed the word 'mate' before. It's weird._

"Ok, weirder than talking to a ghost on Pages?"

 _...No._

Phil sniggered. His mind was trying to go in a million directions at once.

"Ok so I have questions," he started. "Like - a lot of questions..." he trailed off as he saw the screen continue typing.

 _I might need your help. But I'm not sure how, yet._

"Right," Phil's mind sobered. "Maybe you should start from the beginning," he prompted, and watched as the blinking cursor finally moved forward.

 _I'm going to need to get back to my body..._


End file.
